


i sought him who my soul loves (i sought him but found him not)

by peltonea



Series: all these blessings shall come upon you (and overtake you) [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: (actually it's strangers to friends with benefits to lovers but that isn't a tag so), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Eden's Gate Cult, Anal Sex, Arson, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Crime Scenes, Explicit Sexual Content, Food Sex, Friends With Benefits, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insomnia, Investigations, M/M, Morning Sex, Nightmares, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Praise Kink, References to Addiction, References to Depression, Serial Killers, Strangers to Lovers, except the serial killer's victims, nancy’s crotchet club is Hope County’s rumour mill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-05-19 14:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 60,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19359085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peltonea/pseuds/peltonea
Summary: “Ugh,” Hudson mutters. “Lawyer’s here.”Rook glances up, and it takes a moment to place the man sauntering into the station. He’s clearly wealthy, with that well-tailored suit and obnoxious wristwatch. But beyond that, he has familiar blue eyes, brown hair gelled back...It’s him, Rook realises, stomach dropping like a stone. The man from Billings. It’s strange how much a tie and a lack of smudged eyeliner can change somebody’s appearance.Maybe it’ll be fine. Maybe he won’t recognise Rook without a dick in his mouth and this isn’t going to be awkward as hell.The man glances over at Hudson and Rook, and his smile falters the moment he makes eye contact with Rook. Damn it. He recovers quickly, though, striding confidently to the desks as though he hadn’t noticed a thing.“Good morning, Deputies,” the man says. Then he’s flashing Rook a bright smile, holding one hand out to shake. “Hi. The name’s John Seed. You must be the new officer.”"Yeah," Rook mutters, awkwardly returning the shake. "Deputy Rook. Nice to meet you."(Or: There’s a serial killer loose in Hope County, and Matthew Rook’s one-night-stand isn’tquiteas much of a one-off as he originally thought.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This is the No-Cult AU nobody asked for or even wanted, but you've got anyway. This was intended to be a one-shot, but it quickly grew way beyond all control, so I'm posting it in chapters instead. (sorry, not sorry).
> 
> This will become apparent later, but some characters behave markedly differently than in canon because I've changed their pasts slightly. Most obviously, the Seed siblings are just messed up but otherwise normal people, rather than seriously evil cult leaders attempting to murder everybody else. And although it doesn't start particularly happy, this is a self-indulgent, happy AU where everybody lives and only faces mundane problems like utility bills, speeding tickets, and serial killers. 
> 
> This is the same Deputy as in Excommunication is the New Black, I just feel bad about constantly making him sad.
> 
> This first chapter is mostly just pure, unadulterated smut with a little bit of character building. The actual plot starts up in chapter two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR THIS WORK TO BE HOSTED ON ANY SITE OTHER THAN AO3, FOR FREE. IF YOU ARE READING THIS ON A THIRD PARTY APP OR SITE, ESPECIALLY WHICH CHARGES A FEE OR OFFERS A SUBSCRIPTION, THE DEVELOPER DOES NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO PROFIT OFF MY WORK. PLEASE DO NOT SUPPORT THESE FRAUDS.

Matthew Rook isn’t much of a drinker. Alcoholism runs in the family. He’s only in the bar because he’s lonely, waiting for his Grindr match to show up. He’s tired from spending his day packing up the van, driving halfway across the state in one fell swoop. He’s got a couple days here in Billings to kill: his house in Fall’s End won’t be ready until Friday, and Rook knows his own weaknesses. If he lets himself stop moving, even for just one night, he’ll spend the few days he has in Billings doing nothing but moping until the pressure to get to Hope County overwhelms his lethargy.

Fuck that. Spending the night with a stranger is much better than sitting in his motel room, feeling sorry for himself.

Luke had been a nice enough guy, a fair and caring partner, but in the end they just hadn’t been compatible. Their life goals were too different and their personalities had kept clashing (Luke was always so relaxed, unable to take anything seriously; Matthew was always silently worrying, unable to open up), and eventually they’d both realised that even if the sex was awesome, it didn’t make up for the way they’d drifted apart. They should have been so good together and they weren’t and even now, six months on, it still doesn’t seem fair.

Rook takes another sip of alcohol-free beer, discreetly checks his Grindr messages again. J, a thirty-two year old ‘professional looking for fun’, is supposed to be here any minute now. Recognising him might be hard, considering that all the photos on his profile are from the throat down, showcasing a slim-built body, pale skin littered with hundreds, if not thousands, of black-and-white tattoos.

Still, Rook’s pretty confident that J will find him. He’s the only Native person in the bar, sticking out like a sore thumb in his bright red plaid, and he already sent J a photo showing the view from his table. The reply had come five minutes ago: ‘OMW’.

Now, there’s nothing to do but wait. Tonight is something of a reward for himself, a personal ‘thank you’ for the hard work he’s put into starting again. He’s no stranger to moving, having never quite found a place he’d be happy to call home, but maybe Hope County is going to be different. Rook sure hopes so, but it’s been a long time now and he’s starting to think that he might never be happy. He’s twenty-nine, almost thirty— he should be happy, should have his entire life stretching out in front of him, endless possibilities, each one vibrant and bright and shiny. But it all looks bleak. Grey. Starting to think he doesn’t even _have_ a future to speak of—

No.

Rook shakes his head. Don’t think like that.

What would Mme. Fabreau say? She’d been a good therapist, encouraging and thoughtful and deeply sympathetic, gently forcing Rook to look at his problems, helping him figure out coping strategies and mechanisms that didn’t involve alcohol and thinking about ending it all. She’d say something annoyingly positive, like ‘just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there’, and then they’d spend half a session unpacking exactly why Rook feels this way and how that could be challenged or redirected into positive action. And Rook is no fool— he knows full well that this is all because he’d let himself believe that Luke was his future husband, looking at their relationship through rose-tinted lenses, ignoring every warning sign that came up. He’d fallen, and fallen hard, and he’s still trying to get up now.

Maybe if Rook gets fucked hard enough he’ll forget the way Luke always used to whisper in his ear, the way Luke always used to kiss him and caress him and make him feel like they were the only two people on the planet.

Yes. This, in its own way, is therapy, Rook decides, taking a final sip of his drink and regretting it immediately. Alcohol-free beer is terrible, or at least this brand is. It’s too sweet— the bitter edge he’d used to like so much replaced by something almost cloying.

Bottle now empty, Rook leans back in his chair and glances round the bar. Nobody who looks like they could be J has arrived yet. He doesn’t know where J is travelling from and he didn’t get an estimated time of arrival, so it could be a while yet.

Rook sighs. Gets up. Heads over to the bar.

“What’ll it be?” asks the bartender, clearly bored.

“Just coke, please,” Rook replies, and he slides a couple dollar bills over.

“Coming right up,” the bartender says, and gets to work. “You want ice? Lemon?”

“Sure.”

Rook takes another look at the bar screens: cricket, for some reason. He doesn’t know the teams.

A man comes to the bar. Leans over on his elbows, turning a piercing gaze upon Rook as he waits. He’s wearing black cotton gloves, a long-sleeved navy button-down with black slacks and shiny shoes. His brown hair is artfully messed up, and he’s got smudged kohl lining his bright blue eyes. The bartender slides a glass of soda Rook’s way, and he takes it with a polite ‘thanks’.

“You new around here?” the man asks. He’s handsome, a striking bone structure underneath that neatly-kept beard. “Haven’t seen you around before.”

“Just passing through town,” Rook replies. “I’m meeting a friend here, actually.”

“Oh?” the man asks. “Same for me. That friend of yours got a name?"

“J,” Rook answers, and the man rolls up one sleeve to show familiar tattoos, a smug grin on his face.

“What a coincidence,” says J. “I’m looking for Matt.”

“You found him,” Rook concedes. He gestures at the bar. “You thirsty? I’m paying.”

“A little,” J concedes. “What are you having?”

“Just soda. Not big on drinking, to be honest,” Rook says, digging his wallet out. “You do you, though.”

“I’ll have the virgin mojito,” J says, to the bartender. He flashes Rook with a dazzling smile: “I’m not much of a drinker, either.”

There’s some awkward small talk. Neither of them want to disclose very much about their personal lives. Still, it’s a nice change. In Rook’s limited experience, his hook-ups have generally been a lot more eager to get down to business. He’s not complaining though. Makes this feel like the celebration it is, almost like a date instead of a quick fuck.

“I’m not from around here,” Rook explains, at one point. “I’m actually in the middle of moving right now.”

“Is that so?” J asks. “I’m here on a business trip.”

“You ever been to Billings before?”

“A couple times. I deal a lot in property, so…” J shrugs. “You?”

“Not really. Wasn’t sure what to expect. I like it, though. Good people around here.”

“That’s true,” J pauses. “I’ve never been to this particular establishment before. It’s nicer than I though it would be.”

“Agreed,” Rook says. “But I don’t really go to bars much, so…”

“You’re just here for me?” J asks, and he chuckles. “Well, I’m flattered."

“I don’t do this often,” Rook admits. “This is… something of a treat for myself.”

“It’s the same for me,” J replies, an awkward smile stretching across his face. “This is a celebration, of a sort.”

“What are you celebrating?” Rook asks. It’s strange how much they have in common. But it’s good. It’s nice to connect with someone, however fleeting that connection is.

“It’s a little personal,” J says, clearing his throat. And then after a moment, he continues. “It’s… It’s been ten years of sobriety, as of today. My family arranged a surprise party for when I get back. They think I don’t know, but… well.”

“Good for you,” Rook says. Whatever J’s vice was, it’s fantastic to hear that he kicked it. Rook’s seen too many families torn apart by drugs and alcohol. “Seriously. You did great. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s been hard, but worth every moment of struggle,” J says. He clearly enjoys the praise, though he pretends not to. “What about you? Why are you treating yourself?”

“Just got a new job,” Rook says. “I worked really hard for it, and I got it.”

“Wonderful news,” J says, and he smiles, and it’s exactly the kind of smile that gets Rook all weak at the knees. He sets his empty cocktail glass down, eyes Rook’s mostly-finished soda, and winks. “How about we get down to celebrating our achievements somewhere a little more, ah, comfortable?”

“Sounds good to me,” Rook replies, and J laughs, short and sharp and somehow lovely.

They end up going back to J’s hotel room: Rook’s motel is closer, but J’s clearly used to a certain standard of living, the way his nose wrinkles at the very mention of a motel. The walk is short and pleasant, about eight minutes further into the city centre, where the buildings start seguing into high-rise offices, fronted by independent coffee shops and designer boutiques.

The hotel is fairly small, but it doesn’t lack in luxury: the carpets are plush and brightly-coloured, heavy velvet drapes hanging across the windows. They take the elevator up to the third floor, then J leads Rook down a short hall to his room, swiping the door open with a keycard.

“Now, how are we doing this?” J asks, holding the door open for Rook with a dazzling smile. He could get used to this kind of treatment.

“I was hoping that you’d fuck me,” Rook says. Usually, he’d suggest something like thigh-fucking or blowing each other instead. Quicker, easier, less clean-up. But lately he’s missed the feeling of someone else inside him, and his own fingers just aren’t the same. He’s not sure why— maybe it’s because Luke always used to do it curled around him, as though he were trying to squeeze himself inside Rook’s skin too. Maybe he wants to feel that again, someone pressed close enough that it feels as though they care.

“You prepared for that already?” J asks. He kicks off his expensive shoes, and they land somewhere under the couch.

Rook slides his sneakers off, leaves them neatly near the door. It’s a stupidly nice room, all soft carpeting and expensive-looking furniture. There’s a living area in front of the door, and a huge bed on the opposite wall. The pillows and comforter have been covered entirely by a large, brightly-coloured throw— probably to save J from having to sleep in semen-stained sheets. There are a couple doors leading off to the left. One is slightly ajar, showing white tiling and a mirror. Probably the bathroom. The other one is probably a wardrobe or something.

“About as much as I can be. Give me five minutes with some lube and we’re good to go.”

“You knew exactly what you wanted, didn’t you?” J chuckles. He starts peeling off his gloves, revealing tattooed knuckles. The gloves are thrown toward the dresser. “Tell me, what would have happened if I’d said ‘no’? What if I’d wanted you to fuck me instead?”

“Probably would’ve gone along with it,” Rook replies, honestly. J’s hot enough and charming enough that it wouldn’t really matter. He’d still get off, and it’d still be satisfying.

“Flexible,” J muses. He quirks an eyebrow, begins to unbuckle his belt. “I like it.”

“You got condoms?” Rook asks. He starts unbuttoning his plaid shirt, wishing he’d chosen something with fewer buttons.

“Of course,” J replies, pausing to dig through his pocket, producing a small, foil-wrapped packet. He gestures toward the bed. “Lube, too.”

“Thanks,” Rook says, taking the packet, holding it between his teeth as he shrugs his shirt off his shoulders, throwing the plaid onto a nearby armchair. He can see the lube bottle, sitting on the bedside table beside a Gideon’s Bible.

J hums appreciatively, eyes raking up and down Rook, grin stretching wider. Guess all that training to pass the physical was worth it— nothing boosts the ego like _that_ kind of reaction.

“I want your dick in my mouth,” Rook says, plucking the condom from between his teeth. J’s smile gets even wider.

“You’ll hear no complaints from me,” he says, hands quickly dropping to unbutton his jeans.

It’s obvious, without the heavy denim in the way, that J’s just as excited about what’s to come as Rook is, if not more so. J throws himself onto the bed, so Rook takes his lead, dropping his pants and underwear before crawling on too. He pauses at John’s hips, one hand braced either side of him. Looks up to make eye contact with J.

“That shirt’s gonna have to come off, you know,” he says. J smirks, starts working at the buttons, so Rook goes ahead, freeing J’s erection from his underwear.

The pictures J sent earlier were pretty accurate. He’s big enough to be satisfying, but not so much that Rook’s going to have to worry about injury. Uncut, neatly groomed. Exactly what Rook was after. He takes a moment to carefully roll the condom onto J’s cock before he gets to work. J doesn’t look like he has any infections, but you can never be too sure.

“Perfect,” Rook mutters to himself, and he doesn’t miss the way J perks up, the way his dick twitches in anticipation. Praise kink? Maybe.

Rook teases J a little, pressing his tongue to the opening at the tip of his cock before playing with the head, worrying at the ridge. He closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying J’s short gasps of pleasure. Rook adjusts his position, spreading his knees wider, lowering his centre of gravity, giving himself better access. He reaches for the lube, drizzling some onto his fingers before he brushes them against his hole.

Rook cups his free hand around J’s ass, opens his mouth wide, and slowly starts taking J’s full length into his mouth. He’s not planning on doing it for long, just wants to give him a taste of what’s to come. He slowly starts sinking a single finger inside himself, almost maddeningly so. Has to remind himself to take it easy. They’ve got all night. No need to rush.

J lets out a ragged moan, curls his fingers in Rook’s short hair.

“God,” J mutters. “You’re going to kill me like this.”

Rook knows what he’s doing. He puts on a good show, moaning exaggeratedly around J’s dick when he adds another finger, when he brushes his prostate. He’s watchful, keeping a careful eye on J’s reactions, trying to mentally map out exactly what makes him tick. What makes him arch up a little more into Rook’s mouth, what doesn’t seem to produce a reaction at all.

J groans in frustration when Rook slides him out of his mouth, returning to playful teasing. Wickedly swirling his tongue around the head before lapping gently at the prominent veins on the underside. J’s cock feels great in his mouth, and Rook is certain that it's going to feel even better when it's actually inside him. It's been too long. He works his fingers quickly, unwilling to wait longer than he has to.

J seems impatient too, shifting his hips up to meet Rook's mouth. He can't seem to be able to stop himself babbling, a constant stream of encouragement. Yeah. He definitely has some kind of praise kink.

“Jesus Christ,” J’s voice is ragged, from either constantly talking or from sheer need. “You do this a lot? I thought so. You’re so good at this— it’s like your mouth was made for cock-sucking. Like you were made for me.”

Rook ignores the babble, prepares himself carefully until his fingers can slip easily in and out, a little excess lube dripping down his perineum. He takes the head of J’s cock into his mouth, gives one last, hard suck before allowing it to pop obscenely out of his mouth, a string of saliva briefly connecting it to his lips. J’s left speechless for a moment, staring down at him, and it's just long enough for Rook to cut in.

“You know what’s even better than my mouth?” he asks.

“Oh, God,” J says, propping himself up on his elbows, eager to continue. “Yes,  _please_ —“

“I was thinking I might ride you,” Rook says. “But I’m feeling kind of tired now. Don’t wanna do all the hard work.”

J moves quickly, giddy with excitement. He pushes himself up and onto his knees, ushering Rook into a position that’s much easier for the both of them. Rook winds up kneeling, bracing himself just above the headboard, J behind him. J squeezes Rook’s ass with his left hand, presses the tip of his other thumb inside him, fingers caressing the underside of his balls as he inspects Rook’s work.

“I should’ve insisted on eating you out,” J says, sounding mournful. He takes his right hand away, continuing to squeeze Rook with his left. “You have a great ass.”

“There’s always round two,” Rook suggests, hopefully. He’s never been rimmed before. Might be good to try.

“Ah, but it’s not the _same_ ,” J says. He sighs, audibly, and there’s a gentle pressure against Rook’s hole as J shifts on the bed, clearly lining himself up. “Never mind— are you ready? Tell me if this hurts.”

“Yeah, will do,” Rook mutters, and J very slowly pushes in. There’s a little resistance, a little discomfort— it’s been a while, okay?— but it doesn't take long before J manages to get himself fully seated, sighing in satisfaction.

“Ugh,” J says. “You feel great.”

“So do you,” Rook replies, and it’s true.

He’s missed this, the raw, sensual feeling of being completely, impossibly full. He takes a couple breaths, waits for his body to just relax already, to adjust to J’s girth, and twists his neck, shooting J a mischievous wink.

“You gonna fuck me or what?”

J lets out a short laugh, the sound of it sending shivers down Rook’s spine. And then he grips Rook by the hipbones, and starts up a merciless rhythm. Thrusting in and out so forcefully that Rook has to concentrate on keeping himself steady instead of crashing face-first into the wall. It’s good, but not great.

Rook tries to angle his hips so that it’s better. It doesn’t work, given how he’s braced, but J seems to realise what he’s doing, sliding one arm around Rook’s hips, pausing just long enough to allow Rook to lower his torso, brace himself on the sheets instead. Then, when he continues, he manages to hit something, manages to start sending intense jolts of pleasure through Rook’s body with each powerful thrust.

Rook can’t help but groan in pleasure— not exaggerated this time— and J seems to like it, chuckling again as he continues with vigour. Rook’s done all the hard work so far, so he presses his face against the sheets, keeps encouraging him. Each time their bodies meet comes a new string of frenetic praise, a new spark of pleasure that makes every muscle in Rook’s body quiver, another moan, another gasp, more, more, more.

“Fuck,” he moans, moving his hips back to meet J’s. “Don’t stop— please, don’t stop. I need this. Need you. Could stay like this forever. Feels like heaven.”

“Don’t tempt me,” J replies, breathlessly. His blunt nails dig into Rook’s stomach, his hipbone. J tightens his grip around Rook, their sweat-slick skin starting to slide easily against each other. “How are you so _tight_? Jesus, I'd have thought you'd have men lining up every night to get a piece of this...”

“I should be so lucky,” Rook can't help but laugh.

"Fuck," J pants, and Rook can't quite tell if he's speeding up or not. There's a desperate edge to his movements now. "Not— not gonna last much longer—“

J sounds desperate, and he wraps his hand around Rook’s dick, starts stroking frantically, his hand moving almost completely out-of-time with his hips. Rook doesn't complain, though, 'cause it feels fantastic and he's quickly losing what little self-control he had to start with, gasps and grunts and groans bubbling out his mouth. 

“God..." J gasps. "Let me make you come, I want to make you feel good…”

Rook opens his mouth to reply, but he doesn’t get the chance to. Instead, he reaches his peak, seeing stars as he spills wordlessly into the sheets. J works him through it, thrusting desperately a little longer before his hips stutter, nails biting into Rook’s skin as he comes with a loud cry.

For a moment, neither of them move. Eventually, J pulls out with a soft, slick sound, and Rook sprawls himself on his back, trying to catch his breath. J peels off the condom, throws it in the trash.

Silence, but not the uncomfortable kind.

One minute, then two.

“You think you’re up for another round?” J asks, hopefully. He's still out of breath, a soft sheen of sweat on his skin.

“God, yes,” Rook replies.  “Give me a minute."

* * *

 

When morning arrives, in the form of J’s gently bleeping alarm clock at eight AM, it finds the two of them sprawled in impossibly soft Egyptian cotton, a tangled pile of limbs. Rook hadn’t meant to stay the night, but… well. It just happened. 

J’s silver tongue served him well—not only in the shaping of words, but in reducing Rook to a quivering pile of want with just a few well-placed swipes. And when they’d finally been done, Rook hadn’t had any energy to spare, barely keeping his eyes open long enough to clean himself up a little. 

“Sorry,” J croaks. He sits up, stretches, yawning. “Have a meeting at nine.”

“No need to apologise,” Rook manages, the words falling from his mouth clumsily. He hasn’t slept that long, that deeply in months. “I’ll get out of your way.”

"You don't have to,” J says, climbing out of bed. “Take your time, see yourself out. Take a shower or something if you want.”

“Thanks,” Rook says, and he forces himself to sit up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. His whole body aches, in the best possible way. He’ll be feeling last night for days to come.

“That was better than I was expecting. Last night, I mean,” J says, rifling through the wardrobe. From this angle, Rook can see that his tattoos don’t cover his back. He has hundreds of tiny black-and white designs all over his arms, a couple on his chest and stomach, and a few on his thighs and feet. But nothing on the back of his body. Is it OCD or something? Or did he do them all himself?

“Yeah,” Rook agrees. “Had some real hit-and-misses in the past.”

“You come to Billings often?” J asks, rummaging in a drawer for socks and underwear. He looks hopeful, glancing back at Rook with those blue puppy-dog eyes.

“No, not really,” Rook admits.

“That’s a shame,” J says. “Was just thinking, if you and I were ever in town again…”

“I’ll hit you up,” Rook promises. “You were great— could do with more of that.”

“Glad we agree,” J chuckles. He vanishes into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

Rook checks his phone: there's a text message from his sister, Madeline, reminding him to send a card for Maman's birthday and to give them both his new address for monthly care packages. He copies the information from the message his realtor, Adelaide, sent last week: 5 Grand Parade, Fall's End. Sends it with a smiley emoji and sets himself a reminder to buy and send the card before he leaves Billings.

It doesn’t take long for J to emerge freshly showered, in an expensive-looking three-piece suit, his hair neatly combed. The last thing J does before leaving is to pull on his dark gloves, pausing as he reaches for his briefcase.

“The maid will be in at eleven, and the door locks automatically from the outside,” J says. He gives Rook a genuine-looking smile. “I hope we see each other again.”

“Same here,” Rook agrees, and then J is gone.

It’s a bit of a shame they met each other like this, Rook thinks later, in J’s shower. J seems a decent sort of guy. Charming, witty, intelligent, smoking hot. Just the kind of man Rook would want in a long-term kind of deal. He quickly shuts that thought off, though, along with the water.

Rook makes the bed before he leaves, and doesn’t look back as he heads back to his cold little motel room. He's not going to do that any more, not after all that shit with Luke. He's not going to look back and regret or dwell on what might have been.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I screwed up a couple things last chapter, which I have gone back and fixed/clarified:
> 
> -In this AU I’m going along with the official age gap between the Seed brothers (because it fits the backstory better). John is thirty-two and has been sober for ten years, so he’s twelve years younger than Joseph and fifteen years younger than Jacob.  
> -Deputy Rook tends to call his mother, a proud French-Canadian ‘Maman’ rather than ‘mom’, and his father, a proud member of the Blackfeet nation, ‘Nínna’ instead of ‘dad’.  
> -I also went back and edited all the grammar mistakes I could find (because for some reason I can only spot them AFTER posting??? what the fuck, brain??)
> 
> In terms of warnings: 
> 
> -Coming out & staying closeted have become major plot points in this fic- I didn't intend this when I started writing, but that's what's happened. I've gone back and edited the tags to reflect this.  
> -There's a fairly graphic description of a mutilated dead body in this part, and there will be in the next two parts as well. Skip from "Rook's seen dead bodies before, of course." to "Rook hadn't been able to look at her for very long", approx. 2 paragraphs.

The Fall’s End Sheriff’s Department is a small, white-painted building on the outskirts of town. That isn’t as inconvenient as it sounds, because Fall’s End is tiny. Most people in Hope County live in Holland Valley, on one of the many farms and ranches and houses dotted around the pleasant green plains. The residents of the Henbane and the Whitetails tend to live in isolated homesteads and cabins, though there are also a couple trailer parks in the county: Silver Lake, on the border between the Whitetails and Holland Valley, and Moonflower, over in the heart of the Henbane. As far as Rook is aware, Fall’s End is the only town in the county. Well, according to the maps, there’s a ghost town, somewhere in the Henbane, but that doesn’t count.

While Fall’s End is a quiet, isolated town, its denizens are anything but. Within five minutes of Rook parking his pickup outside his new house (a modest, one-bedroom place just off the main road), the local pastors turn up to help him.

Jeffries, the Catholic, is more or less the same height as Rook, though he seems a little more well-built. He’s African-American— rare in these parts— with welcoming brown eyes and a short, well-maintained beard. Seed, the Baptist, is slightly taller and lankier, almost unhealthily pale. His black hair is long enough to be tied back into a bun, his beard a little wilder than Jeffries’. Both of them are mild-mannered, unfailingly kind and polite. And neither will accept ‘no’ as an answer.

“Please— let me take that for you,” Father Jeffries says. He very gently refuses to listen to any of Rook’s protestations, carrying the box of pans and utensils into the house.

“Sheriff Whitehorse was saying you’d travelled an awful long way to be here with us,” Pastor Seed says, shrugging Rook’s bag of fishing gear over one shoulder. “Where exactly did you move from?”

“Uh, I came here from Sidney, over in Richland County,” Rook says, lifting a heavy box of books. Jesus, why did he own so many? Should’ve got an e-reader, like Madeline suggested. “Before that, I lived in Scobey and Plentywood, and I stayed in Shelby a while too. Spent most of my life in Canada before I came down— Shelby is maybe an hour’s drive from my grandparent’s place in Browning.”

“Oh?” Seed asks, and he seems genuinely interested, depositing the fishing bag in the living room. “You’re Canadian, I take it?”

“Yeah, kind of,” Rook explains. He puts his books in the far corner of the living room. “Mom is from Quebec and Dad is from the Blackfeet rez, so I’m a dual citizen.”

“Fascinating,” Jeffries says, carefully setting Rook’s pans on the counter. “Have you lived in the US for long? You don’t seem to have an accent.”

“Uh… maybe a decade?” Rook can’t quite remember. He’d stayed in Canada for about a year after leaving home. Or was it two years? Moving to Shelby and reconnecting with his grandparents had been the first step in making amends with his parents, and he’s pretty sure that was back when he was just turning twenty.

“Ten years, that would do it,” Seed says, thoughtfully. He chuckles. “I suppose I don’t sound particularly Southern any more, do I?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not,” Rook agrees, heads back toward the door, where he can see Jeffries reaching for another box. “Where in the South did you live?”

“Georgia, if you can believe it,” and Rook can— there’s a hint of a Southern drawl when he says it: ‘ _Jaw-jah_ ’. “I lived in Rome my whole life, and then the Lord brought me here, also about a decade ago, to Fall’s End, and I’ve never looked back. It’s a wonderful place. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it here.”

Rook hopes that Pastor Seed is right. He’s getting tired of looking for a place to call ‘home’. Always searching, but never finding.

Whatever else Hope County is, it’s definitely a place where ‘community’ really means something. Scarcely has Rook deposited his box of books in the living room than more people show up. Some stay for a scant few minutes, introducing themselves before leaving. Others bring a welcome gift for the newest member of their community. Others, like the pastors, insist on getting stuck in, helping Rook clear his van.

Rook quickly loses track of names, but he remembers a few. Mr. Rye, his name printed helpfully on his t-shirt, is a cheerful man who helps Rook carry in his couch. His wife, an Asian woman who looks about six months pregnant, brings a plate of cookies and a couple jugs of home-made lemonade— the perfect pick-me-up for a sunny June afternoon. There’s a cheerful, pudgy man with a bandanna and a sunburn, who arrives with a six-pack of beer that Rook probably won’t drink, but doesn’t have the heart to actually tell him so. He’s good company, rambling pleasantly as he helps Rook carry in furniture. A pleasant blonde woman brings a casserole, courtesy of ‘Casey’, whoever that is. Grace Armstrong, a local celebrity, stops over for a half hour or so, while Rook’s taking a water break. She’s a calm, organised woman who gives him a map of the area, local hunting and fishing spots carefully marked in bright colours. An Olympic athlete who owns a shooting range a little way outside of town.

“Stop by any time,” she says. “I have an arrangement with Whitehorse, you’re free to practice whenever you like. I charge for tuition, though. And remember to bring your own ammo.”

A couple living just outside of town come over with pumpkin pie (apparently made from last year’s preserved crop) and their dog, Boomer. Rook is sorely tempted to keep him, but settles for petting him for a solid ten minutes, making small-talk with his owners.

“Well, now! Looks like Boomer’s made a friend,” the woman chuckles. “You ever think about dog-sitting? We’re headed on vacation in August, and Boomer don’t like the kennels all that much.”

“Ma’am, I would _pay_ you for the privilege of letting me look after your dog,” Rook replies, seriously, and she seems to take it as a wry sort of joke, clapping his shoulder in mirth.

Gary Fairgrave, owner of the local bar, comes over for a half hour or so, to help carry in Rook’s possessions.Turns out the blonde woman earlier was his daughter, and she’s a couple years younger than Rook. Like most doting fathers, Gary seems eager to see her married off.

“My Mary-May is gonna make some fella very, very lucky one day. Takes after her mother, that one,” Gary says, and then he shoots Rook a meaningful grin: “I’ll put in a good word for you if you ask nicely."

It’s tempting to set Gary straight about his preferences, but Rook keeps his mouth shut. He’d like to establish himself as a cop first, queer second. Made that mistake a couple years ago, introducing himself to his neighbours when he first moved away from home. Got real sick, real quick, of constantly having to wash ‘FAGGOT’ off his garage door. The people of Fall’s End probably aren’t like that, but… well. Can’t be too careful. Can never be too careful.

“I’m a little busy for that kind of thing,” Rook says, with an awkward chuckle. Gary laughs, good-naturedly, and drops the subject.

The Sheriff himself, one Earl Whitehorse, drops by for a couple minutes. He’s shorter than Rook expected, older and pudgier, with a moustache and a pair of sunglasses that were probably out of style even when Whitehorse first started wearing them. But he’s got a sharp look in his eye, a commanding air of authority about him. Seems well-liked, every person in Rook’s house greeting him with a smile and a respectful word.

“Hey, there,” Whitehorse says, holding out a hand. Rook takes it, shaking politely. Whitehorse’s hand is warm and dry, a firm grip. He meets Rook’s eyes with a level, steady gaze. Nínna always said that was the mark of a trustworthy man. “Good to finally meet you in person, Rook. How was the journey?”

“It was good, sir,” Rook answers, honestly. “Journey to Billings was real smooth, and to here only took about… three and a half hours?”

“That is pretty good going,” Whitehorse nods. “Glad to hear it. Now— I can’t stay long, I’m afraid. I’m on duty. But I’m gonna come over eight-thirty tomorrow, we’ll get all your paperwork sorted out, and then you’ll spend the week shadowing Hudson. She’s the best of the best— you’re in good hands with her.”

“Sounds good, sir,” Rook says, and Whitehorse smiles.

“Good luck getting set up,” he says, and politely excuses himself.

All in all, Rook’s truck is clear in about two hours, his house almost habitable. Pastor Seed leaves around then— he’s got plans with his family.

“I’d invite you to join us for dinner, but I think you’re probably exhausted as it is. My brothers can be quite trying company,” Seed says. He gives Rook his address, contact details, and church service information. “Feel free to stop by anytime— my door is always open.”

Rook nods. He’s not a very religious person, not any more. Nonetheless, it’s nice to have that open invitation.

Rook’s house gradually empties as the afternoon progresses and becomes evening. He gets his bookshelf organised and his curtains hung and his clothes put away, though it’s slow going. He says goodbye to each departing person, thanking them for their help, carefully avoiding the names of those he can’t remember yet.

Father Jeffries leaves with a friendly hug and the same open invitation as Pastor Seed had given him. The man who runs the local store turns out to be an avid fisher, gives Rook the details of a local fishing group, shows him their Facebook page on his cell and sends him an invitation to join. Mrs. Rye puts Casey’s casserole in the oven, and before they leave, Mr. Rye spends a couple minutes hunched over some flyers with Rook.

“Now, the water company ‘round these parts is pretty good, shouldn’t need to do more than just call and tell them you moved here,” he says, scribbling on fliers as he explains. “This is the internet package most people get ‘round here— ain’t no point in paying anything more ‘cause the lines need updating and you won’t get faster than this one anyway… Hey, Kim, honey, which company does our cellphones?”

The sun slowly drops below the horizon, amber and pink streaking through Rook’s windows. By the time the last couple of people leave (his immediate neighbours, a family with two children, they’d been kind enough to drop off some essential items they’d thought he might need: hand and dish soap, toilet paper, trash bags), Rook feels about ready to fall asleep where he stands. Barely has enough energy to make his bed before collapsing on it.

It’s never that simple, though.

* * *

 

Rook stares blearily at the ceiling when his alarm goes off. He’s not sure if he slept or not— maybe a couple hours here and there, nowhere near what he actually needs. He forces himself out of bed with a groan, pads to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. Sets the coffee machine on to brew as he dresses in his new uniform, which basically consists of a carefully-pressed green shirt he’d had to buy himself. Tries to comb his hair, make it look like he actually slept more than an hour or three. Eats a couple cookies and some leftover casserole for his breakfast before downing a cup to try to make himself feel alive.

Earl Whitehorse, true to his word, knocks on the door at eight-thirty sharp. He shows Rook the way to the Sheriff’s Department, even though he really doesn’t need to: it’s less than a five-minute walk along the main street, Rook drove right past it on his way into town. Still, it’s nice. It’s homely. And ‘home’ is something Rook sorely needs right now.

The middle-aged woman who runs Dispatch gives them both a cup of coffee when they enter the station. It’s no Tim Hortons, but it’s a nice gesture and it’s caffeine. There’s a lot of paperwork to fill out, and with it a lot of small talk. Turns out that Rook’s taking over from a recently-retired officer, Danny.

“Got himself shot in the shoulder, over a goddamn speeding ticket, of all things,” Whitehorse says. “Hudson’ll tell you the full story, if you ask nice. Anyway, doctors told him it wouldn’t heal quite right and he’s only five years younger than me. Took early retirement, and now he’s living out in the Henbane, writing detective books.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Rook says.

“That it does,” Whitehorse agrees. “You know, I was thinking about retiring soon. Doc keeps telling me it’d be a good idea, some mumbo jumbo about my heart. I’m not sold, though. Reckon I’d get bored.”

“Lot of crime around here?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Whitehorse says. “Lotta everything around here. Drugs, money-laundering, political scandals, you name it. Even had a cult a while back, but our good pastors put a stop to that one.”

Okay, that’s a lot more interesting than Rook expected. Whitehorse doesn’t elaborate though, just takes Rook’s passports— both of them, Canadian and American— and his driving license, and photocopies them for the personnel file. Runs through the handbook, explaining the mundane stuff like vacation days and the way the shift pattern usually works. Finally, Whitehorse flicks through the papers in front of him, pulls out a couple that presumably need extra attention.

“I hope you weren’t planning on raising a family on this job, Rook,” Whitehorse says, looking at Rook over the sheaf of papers in his hand. “The pay’s shit.”

“No, sir,” Matthew Rook shakes his head, gives Whitehorse a tight smile. “Not really a family man if I’m honest.”

Whitehorse looks surprised.

“That so?” he mutters, barely audible, and for a second Rook thinks he’s blown it. But Whitehorse just glances down at the papers again, scribbles his signature on one of them before handing them to Rook. “Sign here, would you? Got an interesting first day lined up for you.”

Rook does. Whitehorse nods, starts filing the papers away, apparently satisfied.

“Looks like we’re all good here,” Whitehorse says, looking up to make eye contact. “One last thing before I put you in Hudson’s capable hands, though.”

“What is it?”

“You know why I hired you, Rook? You, out of all the other candidates I had on my desk?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Rook says. He didn’t really give it any thought. Had just been grateful to be offered a post at all. 

“You have integrity,” Whitehorse says. “You seem an honest man. Humble. Level-headed. That’s exactly the kind of person I need out here, Rook. You see all kinds of shit out in these parts. All kinds of people from all kinds of backgrounds and all kinds of opinions on how things oughta be, and sometimes that clashes with us and our duty. You with me so far?”

Rook nods. Makes sense so far. 

“Good,” Whitehorse says, leaning forward on his elbows. “Now, the thing about rural policing is that the uniform don’t do a damned thing for us out there. Respect ain’t given in these parts, it’s earned. You think you’re up for the challenge?”

“Yes, sir,” Rook says, honestly. He’s not surprised by Whitehorse’s words. His experience of Hope County so far has been positive, if exhausting. It’s geographically isolated, the kind of place where everybody knows everybody else. It’s the kind of place with a strong community, where neighbours watch out for each other and people leave their doors on latch— or at least they would, if it weren’t for the skunks and the cougars and the bears. 

Whitehorse seems satisfied with Rook’s answer, and shoos him out to the main office. Deputy Pratt is on night shift, so it’s Deputy Hudson’s job to get Rook all settled in. She’s the professional type— not a hardass, but serious about her job. Which is good. Rook’s the type who like to know all the rules, the way things are supposed to be done, and Hudson looks pleased when he tells her so. 

“Lucky you’ve got me training you, and not Pratt,” Hudson says, with a wry smile. “He’s a good cop, but he has a hard time taking shit seriously. Likes the sound of his own voice. A real joker.”

Hudson runs through everything swiftly, and most of it is stuff Rook already knows— filing reports and statements and so on. She takes him on a tour of the department: it’s a fairly large building, so it takes a while. She shows him to his desk in the main office, then to an interview room, the storage rooms, the bathroom and the kitchenette. 

“Coffee and milk and stuff is all bought on a rota,” Hudson points at a piece of paper pinned above the sink. Danny’s name has been crossed off, Matthew scribbled above it. He has to buy new dishcloths, some creamer, and toilet bleach by the end of the month. He’ll set a reminder later.

“That’s fine,” Rook says. “Anything else?”

“Clean up after yourself. If you use a cup or whatever, wash it up. If you break something, replace it,” Hudson says. “And if you’re on morning shift, you have to start up the coffee machine.”

“Is cleaning on a rota as well?”

“No, Nancy’s sister comes in once a week to take the trash out and mop and stuff, but she’s getting kind of old, so… we try not to make it hard on her. Anything difficult, we’ll take care of ourselves. Again, clean up after yourself.”

Hudson takes him to the locker room, gives him a key for his own. They’ve helpfully labelled them all with names, one for each full-time officer, and a couple shared ones for the part-time staff. 

“I’d recommend you keep some spare clothes here,” she says. “At least one set of uniform and civilian gear. Never know what might happen. A couple months back, I got milkshake all over my uniform, and I couldn’t go change because I live out near Kellett’s and they needed me here ‘cause one of the officers had to go to the hospital next county over.”

“Is that when Danny was shot?”

“Yeah,” Hudson nods. She looks uncomfortable, her gaze fixed away from Rook. “We were lucky. A couple inches to the right and Danny wouldn’t have made it.”

There’s silence for a moment. 

“You have to be vigilant when you’re out there, Rook,” Hudson says, a hard look in her eye. She’s got her arms folded, hands balled into white-knuckled fists. “We’ve only got each other. It might be quiet around here ninety percent of the time, but that ten percent?” She shakes her head. “Don’t get complacent.”

“I won’t,” Rook promises, but Hudson doesn’t seem any happier. She just looks sad, and leads him onward.  They go to the cells next: there are three, all empty. 

“Mostly these just see a couple drunk and disorderly," Hudson explains. "Usually around the Fourth of July.”

The rest of the tour is mercifully quick. When they return to the office, Hudson beckons Rook to her desk, and pulls up a report. 

“This came in earlier in the morning. It’s not urgent, but I’m going to take you out ‘cause we need to take a look, just in case.”

“What is it?”

“Larry Parker,” Hudson says. “Local crazy case. He’s a good guy, but… he’s crazy. You’ll see when we get there. Says aliens have sabotaged his—“ Hudson glances up, immediately scowling. “—Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.”

“What?” 

“Ugh,” Hudson mutters. “Lawyer’s here.”

Rook glances up, and it takes a moment to place the man sauntering into the station. He’s clearly wealthy, with that well-tailored suit and obnoxious wristwatch. But beyond that, he has familiar blue eyes, brown hair gelled back... 

It’s him, Rook realises, stomach dropping like a stone. It’s J. The man from Billings. It’s strange how much a tie and a lack of smudged eyeliner can change somebody’s appearance.

Maybe it’ll be fine. Maybe he won’t recognise Rook without a dick in his mouth and this isn’t going to be awkward as hell.

J glances over at Hudson and Rook, and his smile falters the moment he makes eye contact with Rook. Damn it. J recovers quickly, though, striding confidently to the desks as though he hadn’t noticed a thing.

“Good morning, Deputies,” the man says. Then he’s flashing Rook a bright smile, holding one hand out to shake. “Hi. The name’s John Seed. You must be the new officer.”

"Yeah," Rook mutters, awkwardly returning the shake. "Deputy Rook. Nice to meet you."

“I’m one of the attorneys here in Hope County,” John says, smoothly and completely professionally, as though he’s never met Rook before. He smiles, and Rook swallows, mouth dry. “I mostly deal in property, but I sometimes assist in cases at the county courthouse as well. We’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Great,” Rook manages. “I look forward to it.”

There’s no way he could get fired for having a one-night stand with the local attorney, is there? Surely that’s illegal or something. Right? It’s not like he knew that he’d be working with John when he started sucking his dick. There’s no way he could’ve known that this would happen.

John looks pleased, turning his attention to Hudson. 

“I need copies of Chris Jones’ speeding tickets from the other day,” he says. “I called yesterday, and Nancy said—“

“Yeah, I got them,” Hudson replies. She rifles through a tray on her desk, holds out a sheaf of neatly-stapled papers.

John smiles, plucking the papers from her hands. 

“Thank you, dear,” he says, and he winks lasciviously at the two of them. “I’ll see you later.”

The John is gone, striding back toward the door, and Rook lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

Okay. Okay, so John didn’t say anything dangerous, didn’t even hint that he’d met Rook before. That’s good, right? So this situation might not be a mess waiting to happen. He’ll need to speak to John, though. Figure out what he’s thinking. Make sure he won’t out Rook to anybody— it’s not likely, but you can never tell. Hopefully, they can agree to never mention the fact they had sex (a lot of really, _really_ good sex) to anybody, at all, _ever_. 

“You want to head over to the Spread Eagle once we’re done for the day?” Hudson asks, jerking Rook out of his thoughts. She looks thoughtful. “Say hi to everybody, maybe grab a beer?”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Rook says. Sitting in a bar while everybody else is drinking isn’t a lot of fun. “Uh— they do food there?” 

“Yeah, they got Casey. He’s pretty good at what he does,” Hudson says. She pauses. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want. Nobody around here’ll think less of you for that. Got a lot of dry people in these parts. Lot of vets, lot of health nuts, lot of religious types.”

That’s a relief.

“I guess I could come along, stick around for a bite,” Rook says. Then, by way of explanation: “I need to go grocery shopping.” 

“Great,” Hudson says. She takes a deep breath, as though to ready herself, then she stands up. “Okay, time to go check on Larry Parker.”

* * *

 

As it turns out, Larry Parker is _actually_ crazy. He’s a genius, no doubt about that. But he’s got some kind of psychotic disorder, suffers from paranoid delusions that there are aliens trying to steal his brain, or… well. Something like that. It’s hard to tell exactly what he believes, because what he believes seems to change constantly.

The report had been about missing pieces of equipment, which Hudson and Rook had found on their way over, maybe a quarter-mile down the road from Larry’s place. 

“Local kids,” Hudson had said, shaking her head. “Nothing for them to do around here now school’s out. This shit is gonna stop when summer break does.”

They’d patrolled for a couple hours, which had pretty much been Hudson showing Rook around Hope County while they waited for Dispatch to give them something— anything— to do. They’d stopped a speeding tourist, given her a ticket. 

“You’ll get pretty familiar with these parts,” Hudson remarked, as they headed past the Jail. “8-Bit up that way is a popular hangout for rebellious kids, now it’s closed. And Sharky Boshaw lives up that way. You’ll see him a lot.”

“Sharky Boshaw?”

“Local pyromaniac. He’s a fucking idiot. Wonder he hasn’t burned himself to death,” Hudson had shaken her head. “Doesn’t know how to talk to people, so he acts like a creep and gets bummed out when they get pissed off at him. Cheers himself up by setting shit on fire, and something usually ends up exploding. It’s really sad.”

They’d ended up stopping for a sandwich at Lorna’s Truck stop, and that’s when they got the call: a dead body discovered on the shores of Silver Lake, not far from the trailer park. 

It had been horrible. 

Rook’s seen dead bodies before, of course. Mostly animals, but he’d seen photos and stuff during his police training. Seeing a dead person in real life is… different. It’s horrible, but in a detached way. 

The woman— and she’d barely been recognisable as that— had been all carved up. Not much blood: presumably, it’d all spilled out into the water. She’d been found naked, weird holes around her joints, patches of skin on her face and neck sliced as though someone had tried to somehow peel her corpse. 

Rook hadn’t been able to look at her for very long. 

Whitehorse and the coroner had examined the body, while Hudson and Rook had searched the surrounding area: no dice, the body had obviously washed up on the shore. It had somehow gotten caught on the jetty, and then discovered when the trailer park manager went out for a spot of afternoon fishing.

Rook had helped them cover her, put her in the van to be taken back to Fall’s End and autopsied. And then they’d gone back to the office, to start filling out reports, to start examining the little evidence they’d collected, the photos they’d taken. It had been a strange, sombre afternoon. The air in the Sheriff's Department had been heavy, somehow. Sad. Melancholy.

“Jesus, who died?” Pratt had asked, loudly, as he walked in that afternoon. Hudson had been getting water for them both, Whitehorse still with the coroner. 

“Uh…” Rook cleared his throat. “I don’t know. She didn’t have ID.”

Pratt’s brown eyes widened. 

“What?” he asked. “You seriously have a murder case?”

Pratt had made quite a show of feeling relaxed despite the fact someone is dead, lamenting that it had to happen while he’s “stuck on night shift”. It’s all bravado— when Hudson returned, handing Rook a glass of water to quell his nausea, Pratt’s voice had trembled and he'd moved with nervous energy, wringing his hands while he quizzed Hudson about the details of the case.

Whitehorse still hadn't returned by the time the clock hit six and Rook's shift ended. 

“Someone from the local newspaper will come by tomorrow,” Hudson said, slinging her jacket on. “I probably don’t need to tell you this, but don’t talk about the homicide.”

“I won’t,” Rook had said, quietly. 

Now he’s sitting at a table in the Spread Eagle with Hudson, nursing a Sierra Mist. Gary had offered something stronger, but had nodded, understanding, when he refused.  They've been making small talk for a while, trying to put the worst of the day behind them.

“We’ll have to deal with it all again tomorrow,” Hudson had said, before heading to the locker room. “Might as well try to wind down a little while we can.”

So that's what they're doing. They talk about anything and everything: the weather, the local community here in Hope, their families. Hudson, as it turns out, is Native too. 

“Mom is Crow,” she says. “She doesn’t live here any more, though. Went to go live with my aunt’s family on the rez when Dad died. They got a ranch out there, you see. The house here was too big for her, she said.”

Hudson is a pretty fun, easygoing woman. Turns out she likes travelling, was planning to head on up to Canada for her next vacation.

“It’s a great country,” Rook says. “Calgary is only about a day’s drive from here. That’s where my parents live.”

They have a lot of things in common: a love of dogs, an appreciation of the smaller things in life. Hudson enjoys shooting, hiking, and sappy movies. All in all, it looks like they'll be good friends. Which is good. Exactly what Rook was hoping for.

Eventually, Mary-May bustles over with a couple steaming plates. 

“I asked Casey to cook up something special for you,” Mary-May says. “You know, since it’s your first day and all.”

Mary-May slides a burger in front of Hudson, and something completely different in front of Rook. Thick, golden fries, generous blobs of cheese curd, and plenty of rich, brown gravy?

“Poutine?” he asks. 

“Poutine,” Mary-May says. “Figured you might like a taste of home.”

Rook quickly gathers a promising-looking forkful, and shoves it in his mouth. It’s too hot, almost burning, but he manages to chew and swallow. But it tastes good. The fries are just right, crisp outside but fluffy inside. The cheese is melting slightly from the heat, but retains its soft texture and delicate taste. The gravy is delicious, a multi-layered, savoury delight tying it all together.

“Is it okay?” Mary-May asks. “I can ask Casey to make something different if—“

“No,” Rook says. “No, it’s really good. Just hot. Tell him ‘thank you’.”

“Will do,” Mary-May smiles, and there’s a bounce in her step as she walks away. 

“You guys eat this a lot in Canada?” Hudson asks. “I thought that was just a stereotype. Why is there cheese _and_ gravy?”

“It’s good! It's like the Canadian equivalent of eating bacon and cheese together,” Rook insists, and he lets her try a little. She doesn’t seem to fully appreciate the delicious fusion that is poutine, but agrees to live and let live, and they trade anecdotes and jokes while they eat. 

Hudson is in the ladies’ room when the entry bell rings, and Gary’s voice cuts through the mellow background music. 

“Evening, John!”

“Evening,” a familiar voice replies, and Rook can feel his stomach tie itself into knots. 

John Seed pulls out the chair next to Rook, and sits himself down. 

“So,” John says, a tight smile on his face. “We meet again.”

“We do,” Rook replies, unsure of what to say. ‘ _Hey, don’t tell anybody that I’m gay_ ’ seems too blunt. ‘ _Have you told anybody we slept together_ ’ seems too accusing. 

“It seems to me that we’re in something of a unique situation,” John says. “I never imagined that the new Deputy would be someone I’ve had the pleasure to know so well.”

“I wasn’t expecting this either,” Rook agrees. It’s hard to tell, with the dim light and the fact John’s wearing all his clothes now, but he seems tense. The way he’s speaking seems guarded, indirect. Like he doesn’t want to admit what they’ve done out loud. Like he’s afraid of judgement. 

Wait. 

Seed. John Seed. Pastor Seed had mentioned having brothers, and so had John— they couldn’t be related, could they? They do share some features. Blue eyes and dark hair for one. And… now Rook thinks about it, their facial structures are pretty similar, too. He isn't certain, though. Pastor Seed is clearly a lot older than John. Cousins, maybe? No...

“It can be hard in a place like this,” John continues, interrupting Rook’s train of thought. “Not many men like us, much less willing to admit it. Far as I can tell, it’s just you, me, and maybe Doctor Lindsay.”

“Maybe?” Rook asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Haven’t been able to get a straight answer out of him,” John explains, then he chuckles. “He’s a very private man. I’m sure you understand that, don’t you?”

Rook nods. He’s still speaking in that strangely indirect way. Like he’s afraid of being found out. And maybe he is.

If John’s brother is a local minister, then maybe he’s not publicly out. Maybe he’s closeted. A man like that won’t willingly out Rook. And as long as Rook doesn’t out him in turn, he’s safe. 

“I do,” he says. “There are a lot of things I’d like to keep between myself and God.”

John nods, seems to relax a little. Seems less afraid.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” says John. “In any case, I think we might be able to help each other out. I know that you’re interested in me, and I know that I’m very interested in you.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” Rook says, because he isn’t. It’s too soon. He doesn’t want to repeat the same mistake again, getting so blinded by how good a guy is in bed that he forgets all the other stuff. Forgets how important it is to be able to connect with each other, to share interests and ideas and to actually care about each other.

John blinks, a split-second of surprise quickly replaced by a wolfish grin.

“I’m not suggesting one,” John says. “No— the opposite, really. A very discreet arrangement involving further… encounters. Benefits, if you will.”

John slides a card over to Rook. 

“My cell number,” he explains. “If you ever find yourself feeling lonely, give me a call. Or a text. Or a photo.”

It’s not the kind of relationship that Rook’s ever gone looking for. No, he’s a romantic, daydreaming about having a husband, a picket-fenced house with a big yard, a bunch of dogs, an adopted kid or three, and a quietly fulfilling life together. The kind of relationship his parents have, that Madeline and Mark have. Nurturing and supportive, the unspoken, overwhelming kind of love that comes with commitment and understanding. And look how well that’s turned out: a string of disappointing relationships and one-night-stands that have left him dissatisfied and emotionally drained.

Rook takes the card, puts it in his pocket. 

“I will,” he says, even though he's not sure. Not sure of what he wants, not by a long shot. 

“I look forward to it,” John looks smug, rising from his seat with a quick wink. “I’ll see you around.”

John is gone within moments, the bell above the door ringing again, leaving Rook alone with his thoughts.

A 'discreet arrangement'? It’s not a bad idea.

Frequent sex with someone who’ll stay quiet about it, something to satisfy Rook while he works on building his life here. All the physical benefits of having a relationship without having to actually come out, without the emotional labour, without any expectations, without any danger of falling apart— not until they both start getting bored.

It’ll be safer than heading up to Billings or Missoula for something anonymous with a stranger. And they’ll both know where they stand. No questions. No longing. An amicable arrangement: no more and no less.

By the time Hudson returns to the table a couple minutes later, Rook's made up his mind.

No regrets, he tells himself, and he calls John three days later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any major mistakes in this, sorry, but it's past 1AM and I just want to get this posted. I'll go back and edit later. More smut next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait!! i've been working away from home the last couple weeks and have had next to no time for writing. i've edited together what i have and liked and have also edited the previous chapters slightly.
> 
> same warnings as previous chapters apply. additionally, there's a couple short sections which reference past experiences of homophobia and there is some mention of john's past drug use and rehabilitation. 
> 
> also: this is not a four-chapter story any more. i was being very optimistic when i posted the previous chapters.

Slowly but surely, Rook’s life enters a steady schedule.

Rook finishes his week of training with Hudson with no further excitement. Although the murder case doesn’t progress, there also aren’t any more murders. The dental records Whitehorse finds identify the woman as an addict from Billings who’d fallen off official records, most likely because of homelessness. All other lines of enquiry (limited as they are) die out rapidly. Whitehorse’s theory is that she was murdered somewhere else and merely dumped in Hope— but without hard evidence, the case remains stubbornly open. 

Rook slowly starts making friends with the locals. Most people seem to know who he is already: the town getting a new cop from outside the county is apparently the second most exciting thing to happen all year. 

Rook gets to know some of the people he met before a little better— Gary Fairgrave always offers Rook a free beer whenever he stops by the Spread Eagle (“You don’t take it. You gotta insist on paying,” Whitehorse advised. “Just the way things work around here, Rook. He’ll gift you a little something around Thanksgiving.”), and he always makes pleasant small talk, usually about the goings-on in his bar or some interesting tidbit of gossip. Grace Armstrong’s shooting range turns out to be a great place to hone his skills, spend a spare afternoon. She’s an excellent teacher— calm and patient, quick to offer suggestions. Pastor Jeffries is an exceptionally pleasant man, always has a few moments to spare for a short conversation with Rook. If he’s noticed that Rook isn’t in his congregation, that he’s not in any congregation, he doesn’t say so. Instead, he treats Rook just the same as the members of his flock: with kindness, patience, and compassion.

It takes time, but sooner or later, Rook manages to piece together a couple names and faces from less familiar people, and those he hasn’t met before— the pudgy guy who showed up with the beers is the son of Adelaide, Rook’s realtor. Hurk Jr. is a friendly guy, humble and simple, but not exactly simple-minded. He’s childish in many ways, but surprisingly philosophical too. Rachel Jessop is a sweet and hard-working young lady who runs a florist-slash-gardening business up at her family home. She’s very apologetic when Rook pulls her over for a busted tail-light, promising to get it fixed immediately. The local vet is a shy but thoroughly interesting man by the name of Charles Lindsay, the same one John mentioned. Rook can see why John assumed he was gay— there are a couple mannerisms he picks up on immediately, and it’s hard to imagine a straight man going for that haircut. Still, it’s not Rook’s business, and he’s not one to pry. 

They’ve all got one thing in common: they’re good people. From the local crazy-cases (Zip Kupka, Larry Parker, and nobody’s quite sure about Sharky Boshaw), to the pillars of the community (the Fairgraves, the Ryes, the Jessops, the Armstrongs, the Minklers, and of course the local pastors), they’re all pleasant, honest people. And Rook likes them— even if Kupka could use a shower or three. 

The people of the Sheriff’s Department are no different. Whitehorse is a fair-minded and fatherly figure of authority. Hudson is stern and strong, but passionate and deeply protective. Pratt is an asshole, but he’s got a heart of gold under his caustic veneer. Nancy, who runs Dispatch, is a grandmotherly sort of woman, sweet and scary in equal measure. Eager to dote on her younger co-workers with coffee and cookies, but unafraid to scold them into submission— especially Pratt. Rook makes sure to always give her a respectful smile and a friendly greeting, the same as Hudson and Whitehorse do. 

“Thank you, Nancy,” Rook says, when she gives him a cup of coffee one Monday. It’s the good stuff, the Tim Hortons grinds his sister sent down the week before. 

“Why can’t you be more like this one, hm?” Nancy pinches Rook’s cheek, glaring pointedly at Pratt, who’s sitting with his feet up on the other desk. “He remembers his Ps and Qs, unlike some people. And he never answers back.”

“Come on! You can’t compare us,” Pratt complains. “He’s Canadian. How am I supposed to compete with those manners?”

“You could start by actually learning some,” Nancy tells him, with a soft swat to the shoulder. “Now, you coming to the Rye’s barbecue on Sunday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Pratt says. “Kim’s cookies are to die for.”

Rook nods, humming an affirmative. They are good. And he’s definitely going to attend— he’ll head down to the river, catch a couple fish Sunday morning. Maybe bring those beers he was gifted.

“Mrs Rye really is a treasure, isn’t she?” Nancy says. “Oh, and Rook— my niece is going to be there too. Her name is Crystal, lovely girl. I’d be happy to introduce her to a nice young man like you.”

Rook chuckles, and it’s a little awkward. 

“Well, that’s awful nice of you, but I’m not really looking for anybody right now.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Nancy says, tutting. “Someone like you would make such a good husband.”

Maybe, but definitely not for Nancy’s niece.

“Hey, how come you never tried to set me up with anybody?” Pratt complains. 

“Because you’re an ass,” Nancy replies, without missing a beat. Pratt simply laughs— it seems that they’ve got an antagonistic kind of friendship, but friendship nonetheless. Rook chuckles, leans back in his chair.

Honestly, he’s starting to _like_ it here.

* * *

John lives on a ranch outside of town, not far from Rye Aviation.

It’s a ranch in name only. There are no animals in the nearby pastures. There’s one field of corn near the gate, which may or may not be for show, and a couple greenhouses along the road to the main house. Everything else about the place screams ‘rich yuppie’. The house looks huge, just like one of those fancy wooden lodges Rook had seen dotted around the mountains back home. There’s a carefully-landscaped garden, with views over the river and the mountainside behind the house, and some kind of barn, which has a little wooden tower attached. It looks gorgeous in the soft, orange light of dusk.

Rook parks his truck and squints past the annexe, the rapidly-fading sunlight not helping matters. Are those _airplanes_ on the grass out there?

_Jesus._

Rook climbs out of the driver’s seat, heads to the front door, knocks politely. He waits a moment, examining his surroundings a little more closely. The house seems to be a pretty new build— probably hasn’t existed more than five years or so, not with how clean and well-maintained the wood is. The glass in the doors is shiny, and Rook checks his reflection again: he looks okay, considering he barely sleeps.

There’s a quiet sound, the tell-tale clicking of a lock opening.

“Glad to see you made it,” John says, welcoming Rook in. “Please, make yourself at home.”

The interior of the ranch is even more opulent than the outside lets on, but it’s a low-key, minimalist kind of opulence. John’s decked the place out with some hygge-inspired, wood-and-glass décor that probably cost more than than every building in Fall’s End put together. There’s a chandelier made of antlers, for fuck’s sake. Antlers. 

“Nice place,” Rook says, with a low whistle.

“Why, thank you,” John says. “Put your stuff wherever you’d like. I was thinking we might share a coffee before heading to the bedroom.”

That’s precisely what they end up doing. John leads Rook to the kitchen, brings out a French press and a couple of delicate cups, as well as a small plate of tuille cookies. It takes all of Rook’s increasingly strained self-control to stop himself stuffing them all into his mouth at once, politely sipping his coffee instead. 

Although John is a gracious host, there’s something a little uncomfortable in the air. Like neither of them quite know what to do next. It’s understandable, since… well, they’re still figuring out exactly what they want from one another. But it’s frustrating too. Rook didn’t come here to drink coffee, tormented by sweet, buttery cookies he’s too polite to eat. He came here to get a better idea of exactly what it is that John wants from this situation. And to get fucked. 

Rook takes a deep breath, and clears his throat. No time like the present. There’s no way he can make things any more awkward than they already are.

“How do you want this to go?” 

John looks.

“I didn’t really have a plan in mind,” he says, looking thoughtful. “I wanted to do something a little different from last time. I thought a lot about eating you out, but there’s a lot of other things I want to try…”

Oh. John’s been _planning_ this. Rook's not sure whether to be flattered or perturbed or desperately horny. Maybe all three at once. 

“That’s great,” Rook manages. “Uh— I meant more generally, though.”

John looks surprised. 

“I thought it was obvious,” he says. “We have a lot of sex, and we don’t tell anybody else.”

“Okay,” Rook says. “But when you say ‘don’t tell anybody else’, how far does that go? Are you... out?”

“My family—“ John starts, and then he stops. Bites his lip, looks uncomfortable. Tries again. “I told my brothers a few years ago. That I, ah, swing both ways. I…” A pause. “It’s not something I like to talk about.” 

So the answer is functionally a ‘no’. 

“I understand,” Rook says. “I’m wary of telling people, too. Especially if I don’t know them well.”

John looks a little more relieved. Like he’d been worried that Rook might look down on him for not being out and proud, for not having his heart open for the world to see. Maybe ten years ago Rook would’ve judged him. But now? After all of Maman’s crying and grieving for the future her son didn’t want? After the deep depression he’d sunk into and still struggled to climb out of? After the landlords who’d fabricated excuses to throw him out, after being let go from too many jobs without notice? After all his failed relationships? After Luke? 

Rook can understand why some people hide that part of themselves now. Hell, he does it himself. He's doing it right now. He has no right to judge, and he doesn't want to.

In the end, Rook agrees to refrain from mentioning John’s sexuality in any situation except from with John in private, and John enthusiastically offers the same to him. Rook accepts— he’d rather come out on his own terms. There’s a code: ‘let’s hang out tonight’ instead of ‘let’s fuck’, and a strict ban on sexting. Meetings like this are ‘movie nights’, which is clearly a terrible idea. 

“What if they ask us about the movies?” Rook asks. “People are gonna get suspicious if we say something different.”

“Make something up,” John says. “Let me know what you said, and I’ll look it up. Same for you.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just say that we’re eating or drinking or something?”

John scoffs. 

“ _Please_. Nobody’s going to believe that. And besides, that’s too…” John snaps his fingers, frowning. “It’s too couple-y.”

Oh.

Rook’s pretty sure that eating together is a normal thing that friends do, if they dress it up right, but he’s not about to try arguing with a lawyer.

“Guess you’re right,” Rook says, and John looks pleased at having won again.

It doesn’t take long to finish their agreements. It’s pretty simple. They’re vague work acquaintances who sometimes have sex. They don’t talk about it to anybody else. They take precautions: there’s the aforementioned text code, for starters. Rook is to come to John’s ranch, so they won’t need to worry about the neighbours in Fall’s End. And of course, no fun unless there are condoms involved. 

“You going to make me sign a contract for all this?” Rook asks, teasingly, when they’re finally finished. 

“Do I need to?” John replies, a good-natured grin breaking across his mouth. He leans forward, tugs urgently at Rook’s shoulder. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.”

Rook follows John upstairs, then along a balcony. John’s room is the last one on this level, with an antlered skull above the door. 

It’s beautiful inside: all delicately polished wood and glass. The walls are adorned with black-and-white photographs of planes. The bed is huge, easily big enough for three, neatly made up with crisp white sheets and a navy blue quilt. A door clearly leading to an en-suite sits next to the largest wardrobe Rook’s ever seen in person. John eagerly starts unbuttoning his shirt, gesturing toward the bed.

“Come on,” John says. “I want to see you.” 

Rook doesn’t need telling twice. He strips quickly, tossing his clothes in a haphazard pile, toeing his boots off. And by that time, John’s tattoos are all exposed as he searches through a drawer in the bedside table. He’s biting his lip, clearly excited by whatever is to come: his face is flushed, dick half-hard. God. He looks so good. 

“Just to warn you,” Rook says, climbing onto the bed, “I didn’t have time to prepare for anal or anything. Probably best to do the rimming thing another time.”

John looks put out, but he nods, fishing a bottle of lube and a couple condoms out of the drawer. 

“Figures,” John mutters. “I didn’t either.”

“You know,” Rook begins, slowly. “I really like your legs…”

“Oh?” John brightens up immediately at the compliment. Rook bites his lip, runs his fingertips oh-so-slowly along John’s inner thigh.

“I really like them,” he says. “Pass the lube?”

John does, a wicked grin breaking across his face. 

“Oh, yes,” he mutters. “ _Yes_ — good idea. Come here, you.”

Rook obeys, sliding in behind John, one arm under them both to help with balance. And for jerking John off later. 

“I noticed you don’t have any tattoos on your back,” Rook says, slicking a thin layer of lube over John’s inner thighs, as John props himself up on one elbow, aided by a couple fluffy pillows, just enough to keep from crushing Rook’s left arm. Making conversation always makes prep a little less awkward, at least in his experience. “There a reason for that?”

“I can’t reach my back,” John replies. “Well— I can, but it’s too awkward. The angle is all wrong.”

“So you did all your tattoos yourself?” Rook asks. That’s impressive— the lines of John’s tattoos are all clean and sharp, something that comes from experience and practice, from someone with actual talent for tattooing. And he has so many.

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents,” John says, with a wink.

Rook gives himself a few strokes, rolls on a condom for good measure, then pushes his cock between John’s legs. John twists his calves and ankles together, trying to lock himself in place. Rook pushes down on John’s knee with his free hand, keeping him steady. John reaches backward, catching Rook’s jaw with his free hand, forcing eye contact. 

“Come on,” John urges, practically vibrating with excitement. 

Rook ignores him, takes a moment to relish the heat of John’s body, the delicious tightness they’ve created. Then he takes John in hand, almost idly, striking up an irregular rhythm of dragging fingers, switching to a firm grip, then feather-light touches. Rook tries to brand John’s reactions into his skull, so he’ll never forget the beautiful way the muscles in John’s jaw twitch, the way his lips press together and his head tilts a little. What makes him tick, and what doesn’t.

The urge to kiss John is almost overwhelming. If they were together, he would— but that’s not what this is. They’re not lovers. They’re just two strangers trying to find some relief. 

Instead, Rook contents himself with a series of rhythmic thrusts, a steady counterpoint to the random, teasing handjob he’s giving. With studying John’s stupidly handsome face, the minute changes in his expression and breath with each movement. A bitten lip, a creased brow, a low groan at the back of his throat. 

“Stop teasing,” John demands, though he doesn’t make any move to try to force Rook’s hand. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, when Rook presses his thumb to the very tip, swiping away a bead of pre-come. 

Rook changes to something a little more structured: a slow, firm stroke from base to tip, fingers gently playing at the head, before another slow stroke from tip to base. He takes his time. Slow, but no longer teasing. 

Rook hasn’t had the luxury of taking his time for a while now. Lately, his love life has consisted of a handful of one-night-stands and the occasional quickie with a stranger at a seedy bar. It’s a good change. When John bites into the meat of Rook’s shoulder with a frustrated groan, pushing his hips back against Rook’s body, his hands, Rook obliges him. He strokes significantly faster, chasing his own pleasure between John’s shapely thighs. He watches John carefully, wants— no, needs to see his face when he comes. 

John seems to have the same idea, grasping Rook’s hair with his free hand, watching him with those piercing blue eyes. 

It doesn’t take long. John comes first, his face twisting beautifully as his body tenses and something warm and wet spurts onto Rook’s hand. The extra tightness helps Rook along, the sight and sound of John’s pleasure almost enough to tip Rook over the edge, and he spills with a helpless noise. 

John’s body slowly relaxes, his grip on Rook’s hair relenting. Rook takes his weight off John’s leg, but otherwise makes no attempt to move. He just needs a minute… 

“That,” John declares, between heavy breaths, “was an excellent idea.” 

* * *

It’s about three weeks before Rook manages to get his phone and internet connected. He spends a whole night watching Netflix between calls to his sisters and parents and grandparents, letting them know he got to Fall’s End safely, conveniently leaving out the bit about the murder because they’ll just worry.

“Bonsoir,” Rook says, squinting at the little script he’s prepared for himself— he can’t speak French worth a damn, so Google Translate and a good dictionary are pretty much all he’s running on. Though Quebecois, his grandparents speak English just fine. Still, it’s always seemed more respectful to try to speak French to them, even if Rook is awful at it. A small gesture of goodwill, after all those years of angry silence.

There’s a soft sigh at the other end of the line. 

“Matthieu?” 

“Oui?”

“Your accent is still terrible,” Grandmére says, switching immediately to English. “Are you well, chouchou?”

Rook can’t help but laugh. Even after all these years, she’s still the same.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m well. Sorry it took a while to get in touch—”

“Yes, yes, very busy, I know,” Grandmére interrupts. “Are you coming home for Thanksgiving? Your mother said you promised this year.”

“Uh… I guess I did,” Rook says. Maman and her family always gets excited about the Thanksgiving weekend, but Rook’s always been more eager to celebrate Indigenous People’s Day on the Monday. That might be because Nínna never drags him to an early-morning church service for it. “I’ll ask the Sheriff tomorrow.”

“Ah, that’s right, she said you were a policeman now— that’s very nice, much better than all that manual labour you were doing. I was getting very worried about you, we thought you’d never settle down. There’s still time to find yourself a nice girl, you know.” 

Rook frowns. ‘Nice girl’, she says, as though Rook hadn’t broken off contact over their homophobic bullshit. He wonders what she’ll say if he ever rocks up to the family Thanksgiving celebrations with a husband on his arm. Most likely, she’d ignore the elephant in the room. Cordially greet his ‘friend’, pointedly giving them one of the twin rooms to sleep in.

“Yeah,” Rook says, bitter anger twisting his stomach. “Yeah, I guess there is."

* * *

 

The best thing about Hope County, in Rook’s opinion, is the close, neighbourly relationship everybody seems to have with each other. The sense of community. The regular events. 

Near enough every weekend, the Rye family holds a potluck barbecue, and most of the locals show up, bringing an offering of their own: a hand-made pie or a mac and cheese, maybe some marinated skewers or a case of beer. Rook comes along every week or so for a couple hours, depending on Whitehorse’s scheduling. The first week, he brings along the case of beer Hurk Jr. gifted him. Spends a couple hours getting to know the locals, the ones he hasn’t met during his time at work. 

Pastor Jerome Jeffries usually comes to the barbecue, and if he’s noticed that Rook is not a part of his flock, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t bring up religion at all, except when it’s necessary to answer a question asked by Rook. He’s a calm, friendly presence, always willing to exchange pleasantries and introduce Rook to another member of his flock.

Although the actual hosting is done by the Ryes, the barbecue is most definitely a community effort. The Fairgrave family come each week, contributing a couple cases of beers and sodas and a few spirits. The Kellets bring some steaks and home-made jerky, and the couple that run Sunrise bring some veggie skewers, and corn cobs still nestled in their leaves. The family in charge of Gardenview bring foil-wrapped apples stuffed with raisins and sugar, as well as some juice and cider. The list goes on— everybody has something to give, and everybody gives something.

It’s a pleasant way to get familiar with his new community. And whatever else the Rye family are, they are extremely generous people, always looking out for their neighbours. At the third barbecue Rook comes to, Nick quickly takes him to one side, warning him to never eat the Seed family’s mac and cheese. 

“It’s watery,” Nick hisses. “And it’s _vegan_.”

“Oh,” Rook says. Watery mac and cheese sucks, but vegan isn’t a deal-breaker for him. Vegan food can be pretty good, though Rook significantly prefers the taste of steak to tofu. “Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem,” Nick says, and he gestures at the meat grill in front of him— there’s another grill nearby which is presumably for vegetarian stuff, a couple vegetable skewers charring beautifully upon it. “Now, can I get you anything? That fish you brought is near enough done.”

“Sure,” Rook agrees, and Nick loads him up with crisp-skinned salmon and a couple bratwurst. 

Rook heads over to the sides table, ready to help himself to as much sweet potato and coleslaw as he can conceivably get on his plate. Pastor Seed is already there, helping himself to greens and potato salad. 

“Good afternoon, Deputy,” Pastor Seed says, pleasantly.

“Good afternoon,” Rook replies, politely. “And I’m not on duty right now, so it’s just ‘Rook’.”

“Oh? Good to know,” Pastor Seed says. “In any case it’s good to see you again. How are you settling in?”

“Uh, it’s all fine,” Rook says, honestly. “Everything’s going really well to be honest. And yourself?”

“More or less the same,” Pastor Seed says. “Oh— have you met my brother yet? Jacob hates barbecues, I’m afraid. He was kind enough to make this offering for us…” 

Pastor Seed gestures at at a particularly wet-looking mac and cheese. Maybe Nick wasn’t exaggerating. 

“And please, call me Joseph. John! Over here!”

John— who had been examining the soda on offer— slinks over, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but talking with Rook. Or, more specifically, talking with Rook in front of Joseph.

“Good to see you again, Rook,” John says, airily, not quite meeting Rook’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Rook says, trying not to think about how well he knows John— or at least his body. “You too.”

“You’ve met already?” Joseph sounds surprised.

“Lots of work at the courthouse right now,” John explains, with a small shrug. “Almost as much as with Ms. Drubman these days.”

“Ah, I was wondering why you’re never around as of late,” Joseph says, mildly. “I tried to call you Wednesday.”

John’s knuckles have gone white, his smile a little taut, which probably means he’s thinking about how he spent Wednesday night enthusiastically bent over the desk in his home-office. They’d almost destroyed his keyboard. 

“Oh,” John says. “Sorry, I must have been out in the hangar.”

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t important,” Joseph says, quick to brush the matter off. An awkward pause— two seconds, then three. “Speaking of the hangar… Deputy, did you know that John is a pilot? He flies in his free time.”

Rook didn’t know that, mostly because his time with John is pretty much dedicated to physical pleasure. They don’t make much small talk. 

“You make it sound so grand,” John chuckles. “It’s just a couple circuits of the county.”

“It’s not everybody that can fly a plane,” Joseph says, a faint frown settling upon his brow. “You’ve achieved something remarkable.”

“I agree,” Rook says. “Planes are really cool. I wish I could fly.”

“Perhaps I’ll take you for a spin one day,” John says, quirking an eyebrow, and then he looks uncomfortable— like it was too much, too date-like. Joseph doesn’t seem to notice, though, just reaches forward to shake Rook’s hand. 

“It was good to see you again,” he says. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak to Jerome.”

“Sure,” Rook says. “Nice to see you too.”

There’s awkward silence for a moment as Joseph takes his leave, neither John nor Rook quite sure of exactly what to say when they’re not fucking. 

“So,” Rook clears his throat. “When did you learn to fly a plane?”

“Rehab,” John replies, quietly. “It’s the same reason I learnt to tattoo. Learning how to do something I enjoyed made me feel good about myself. Helped me with the cravings.”

“Huh,” Rook says, almost entirely unsure of the appropriate response. “That’s good. I’m glad you found something that helped.”

John smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“So am I,” he says. 

* * *

On the first day of June, they find a second body. Or rather, fishers on an island in the middle of Wishbone Lake find a second body. This one is bloated, half-rotting in the water, soft tissues partially eaten away by bugs and fish and birds and wild animals. Still, there’s enough left to figure out what happened. There are holes in this body too, at the joints and along the skull. It is naked, with numerous bloodless cuts and peeled-off pieces of skin and flesh. 

“Looks like blunt force trauma,” the coroner declares. “Just like the last one.”

Whitehorse looks at the body for a moment longer, arms crossed, deep in thought. Then he looks over at Pratt, who’s carrying the stretcher over. 

“I’m calling in the feds,” Whitehorse says. “We ain’t finding a third body.”

They should’ve caught the killer before now, Rook thinks. They should have caught that sick baatard when they found that first body. They should’ve figured it out, instead of assuming that it didn’t happen here in Hope County. Too many evil things happen when good people start thinking like that: it can’t happen here. 

They take the corpse back to town for an autopsy, and Whitehorse makes the call. 

There’s a sad, stifling silence in the Sheriff’s Department. Even Pratt can’t seem to think of anything to say. 

“Another one?” Nancy asks, bustling over with a couple cups of coffee. 

“Yeah,” Rook mutters. He takes a cup from Nancy, gives her a grateful smile— or at least he tries. “Thanks.”

Rook savours the first sip of his coffee. Nancy makes it for him the same as she likes to drink: plenty of creamer, one sugar. It’s pretty good, though he’d generally prefer to drink it black. 

Pratt mutters something that sounds polite, taking his cup from Nancy. There’s another moment of silence. Rook looks at the photos on his desk. They’re not of the body, but the surrounding area. There hadn’t been much around there: same as the last body, this one just washed up on the shore. 

Rook had briefly interviewed one of the fishermen who’d found it. He’d been white-faced, nauseous, trembling, but doing his best to hide how shaken-up he was: unexpectedly stumbling across a half-rotten human corpse is a world away from skinning a deer or gutting a fish. The man hadn’t seen anything, hadn’t heard anything, just happened upon the damn thing while looking for a nice place to set up camp.

Nancy tuts.

“There’s no use sulking about it. Bad things happen. We failed the last time, but we won't fail this time.” 

That seems to stir some life into Pratt. He nods, a serious look in his eye.

“Yeah, you're right. We’re going to catch this guy. Get this sick freak off the streets.”

Rook nods. Nancy looks over at him, gives a pleasant, grandmotherly smile. 

“Well, I know what’ll cheer you right up,” she says. “My granddaughter has a friend, a real nice girl by the name of Sue…”

Rook can’t help but laugh— Nancy’s clumsy attempt at matchmaking is so _unexpected_ , after the horrors of the morning. 

“I’m still not looking for a girlfriend, Nance,” Rook snorts.  Nancy sighs, ruffles his hair. 

“You let me know when you change your mind, hon.”

Rook won’t, but it’s too early to tell if it’s a good idea to say that. He settles for a tight smile and a nod.

"Hey, is Sue the hot one?” Pratt asks, leaning forward eagerly. 

“Sue is off-limits to you, mister,” Nancy swats Pratt’s ear, a playful smile stretched over her mouth. And then she’s gone, leaving Pratt and Rook alone to finish their work.

"Come on," Pratt whines, but he turns his attention back to the photographs on his desk, returning to his work with a new vigour.  Rook takes another sip of coffee and focuses on his report.

It’s going to be fine.  They’ll catch the killer. They have to. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally going to be a lot longer, but, like all things i write, this spun wildly out of control. smut coming up next chapter. 
> 
> warnings for this chapter: ms mable and hurk sr show up.

It’s a perfect summer afternoon: the weather outside is pleasantly warm and sunny, all the windows in the station cracked open to let in a breeze, a small fan oscillating in the corner of the office. Rook’s keeping an eye on the front desk while Nancy’s on break, and Pratt’s finishing up his patrol.

Rook uses the time to fill out a couple reports he forgot to do last week. He’d been so tired— a bone-deep weariness that had clouded every thought and action until Whitehorse had finally stepped in and told him to go home and sleep. Of course, while Rook had tried to do just that, his brain had refused to play along, dwelling on the half-rotted bodies they’d found. The scant couple hours he used to manage each night had gotten even more scant— two or three, instead of four or five.

That’s probably why Whitehorse moved Rook’s night shift month up a couple weeks. Rook’s not sure if it’ll actually help any, but the sentiment is nice. He rubs his eyes, contemplating getting up to grab another coffee, when Pastor Seed walks in looking troubled. His brows are pulled down, his mouth twisted. His arms are crossed, his posture stiff. He takes a few, hesitant steps toward the desk.

“Good morning, sir,” Rook says, and immediately regrets it. It's afternoon. Damn it. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like to report…” Seed hesitates, clearly unsure of what to say. Whatever's troubling him must be serious; he doesn't seem to have noticed Rook's slip. “Well, I… suppose it’s a missing person.”

“A missing person?” Rook asks.

“Well— a few, I think,” Seed says. “I’m not certain. They’re homeless— part of the rehabilitation program I help run at Saint Francis.”

Ah. Rook knows a little about it, mostly from John and Nancy’s off-hand references.

“They get food and shelter, right? And therapy, I heard?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Seed smiles— he’s clearly proud of this work. “Miss Jessop has kindly lent us use of her family home for the women’s shelter. Many of them even volunteer at the Conservatory, in order to learn valuable skills and re-enter employment. It’s a lovely arrangement.” 

“I suppose some come and go as they please,” Rook guesses, and he must be right because Seed sighs, visibly deflates.

“Yes,” Seed says. “Of course, most don’t have cellphones, and even if they did, Hope County’s signal is patchy at best. There’s no permanent address, no next of kin, no regular access to the internet. No way to get in contact if something goes wrong."

“Do they often just… vanish?” Rook asks.

“Yes and no,” Seed says. “It’s not unusual for participants to miss a few days here and there. But some simply drop off the face of the earth. Sometimes I receive phone calls and post cards from the vanished, because they’ve just headed to the next county over or decided to try to rekindle their familial relationships. Those kinds of things, you know. Usually, I wouldn’t worry much— I’m not their keeper, I merely try to provide a path. I’d simply pray for the Lord to show them the way, ask the local Park Rangers to keep an eye out in case they’re in trouble. But…”

“But there’s a serial killer,” Rook finishes, and Seed nods, looking drained.

“There’s a serial killer,” Seed says, very quietly.

There’s not much Rook can say to that.

“I can’t file a report under those circumstances,” he says. Too many uncertainties.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Seed says, looking very weary. He sighs, sadly.

“I can’t file a report, but I’ll add it to the case notes, and I’ll tell the others to keep an eye out. Do you have any photos?”

Seed does, and he hands them over, as Rook jots down a couple notes— last known locations, when had they last been seen, where did they stay. He photocopies the pictures, hands the originals back to Seed.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Rook promises, because he can’t promise Seed anything else.

“Thank you,” Seed replies, and then he adds, sincerely: “I’ll be praying for you.”

Rook forces a smile onto his face. That’s a loaded phrase. Well-meaning, but condescending. Eight out of ten times, it’s accompanied by a pamphlet on ‘resisting unnatural urges’ and ‘taking the rainbow back’. He clenches his jaw, bites back his usual reply: ‘it’s okay, you don’t need to’.

Pastor Seed is just being nice, Rook reminds himself. He’s trying to help in whatever way he can. No need to make enemies over so small an issue. Back off, Matt. Relax. Seed clearly didn’t mean it that way.

“Thank you,” Rook says, after a moment, and Pastor Seed leaves the station looking much happier than before.

The hours pass slowly but surely. Nancy returns from her break, giving Rook an oatmeal-raisin cookie and a grandmotherly pat on the head before shooing him back to his desk, where he whittles away a couple hours with re-filing paperwork and working his way through the station's e-mail inbox: Mayor Minkler wants some statistical reports, which Hudson was working on, and there are a couple enquiries from the local journalists, as well as a few from residents. Statements on the murders, the high number of speed tickets being given out, could an officer please come give a speech at the St Isidore end-of-semester assembly?

Pratt comes back at the end of his shift, cracks a couple unfunny jokes while he gets changed. Then he leaves, but not before insisting that Rook come up to Missoula with him sometime— one of the guys from Jeffries’ church is getting married soon. Drew, probably Gary Fairgrave’s son, and he’s getting hitched to one of the girls working at Lorna’s Truck Stop. Katie or Karen or something. Either way, they’re not people Rook knows particularly well.

“It’ll be great,” Pratt insists, as soon as Rook opens his mouth to decline the offer. “Obviously Drew’s going to be there. You, me, Jenkins, a couple other guys. There’s a really good bar I know, and the girls up there are hot. You’ll love it.”

Rook grimaces, and Pratt starts talking again.

“You don’t have to drink if you don’t want. It’ll be fun, I swear— they’re all great guys, and it’s barely a day’s drive from here. C’mon— you’re new, you don’t know anybody yet. Isn’t this a great way to get to know people?”

Rook considers the offer for a moment. Might not be such a bad idea— he likes hunting well enough, and Pratt’s right, it would be a good idea to get to know some of Pratt’s friends, expand his social circle a little. And while Rook not interested in girls, and he’s not actively looking for a hookup—he doesn’t need it, not now he’s got that arrangement with John— he certainly wouldn’t turn down a phone number or the offer of a quickie from a sufficiently good-looking stranger. It’s nice to have options. To feel wanted. 

“Sure,” he says, eventually. “Count me in. You think Whitehorse and Hudson are going to be okay without us?”

“They’ll be fine,” Pratt insists. “Look— they’ve got Nancy, right? Nobody fucks with her. And they’ve got the part-timers, too. Louise said she’d take some extra shifts while we’re gone, and I think Todd said he’d cover, too.”

Rook hasn’t worked with the part-timers all that much, though they’ve exchanged a few words and had some amicable conversations at Rye barbecues— the part-timers mostly work odd weekends or occasional nights. If they’re willing to help them out, then he’s grateful to them. Pratt, having accomplished his mission, excuses himself. There’s a beer sitting at the Spread Eagle with his name on it.

Rook returns to his work, the little of it he has. There are a couple phone-calls that need to be made. Rook can’t help but fidget as he’s jotting down notes from Miss Mable about the 'suspicious' man who’d visited the Taxidermy a couple days ago: tall, with a New York accent, a woman and three children with him. They sound more like tourists than potential robbers, to be perfectly honest, but Rook's obligated by his employment contract to double-check the details of her case before he closes it.

“I’m sure that one of those kids took something,” Miss Mable insists. "Sticky-fingered little twerp..."

“What do you think they took?” Rook asks.

“I don’t know, but I know they took something! You can’t trust people like that, I’m telling you. Kids kept giggling and poking everything in sight, and what did the parents do? Absolutely nothing. Some people aren't fit to be parents, I'm telling you! Evil little bastards...”

Rook interrupts her, halfway through her rant on bad parenting.

“Ma’am, I can come up and take a look around if you’d like,” he says. “But unless we know what’s missing, I won’t be able to file a report.”

"Well, that's useless!" Miss Mable snaps. "Waste of our fucking tax dollars!"

She hangs up. Rook breathes a sigh of relief: no need to go all the way out to the Henbane to deal with what's almost certainly just paranoia mixed with a heavy dose of bigotry. He grabs himself another coffee before calling the next person on his list. It's going to be a long night.

* * *

 

It’s about seven-thirty when the call comes through, and Nancy pokes her head around the office door.

“Rook? I got a suspicious person reported near Fort Drubman. Hurk Drubman called it in ‘cause his pa’s getting all antsy.”

Rook’s never met Drubman Sr., but he’s gotten a voicemail message about some elections coming up in the fall. A ham-fisted attempt at securing votes that had Rook registering to vote purely so that he could vote for the opposing candidate, whoever the hell that was. (Jesus, who yells at their kid over the phone like that? Especially if that kid is actually a cheerful, well-adjusted adult. Seriously— how did someone like Drubman Sr. spawn a son as fundamentally nice and well-meaning as Hurk? Maybe he didn’t— Adelaide Drubman is always in heat.)

“You reckon it’s actually a suspicious person?” Rook asks. He doesn’t want to drive all the way up there just to get yelled at by an angry old racist.

“Hurk Junior don’t screw around,” Nancy says. “He’s a good soul, that one. If he reckons it’s suspicious, I reckon it is, too.”

“Okay,” Rook says. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

It’s a quiet night, very little traffic on the already-sparse roads. It’s maybe a twenty-minute drive, so Rook flicks on the radio, listens to the local music station— it’s run by a kid called Wheaty, somewhere up in the Whitetails. He’s a pretty good DJ, just enough cheerful chatter between songs to keep things interesting, not enough to grind on the nerves.

Rook cruises along easily, accompanied by Lady Antebellum, then Florence and The Machine, and after that, a man he doesn’t quite catch the name of. Soon enough, he turns off the main road, comes to a stop outside Fort Drubman, where Drubman Sr. seems to be arguing with his son.

“—no call to be spreading my business around like that!”

“Come on, paw, ain’t nothing like that. I just want to make sure there ain’t nothing to be worried about, that’s all. Maybe he just got lost...”

“Lost, my ass! Anyway, there ain’t nothing to be worried about, long as those pansies up in government don’t try to take our guns away, like those damned Canadians...”

Rook winces. Okay. Drubman Sr. is even worse than he’d thought. He’s portly and red-faced, a rifle clutched in his fingers, a walking, talking caricature of everything American.

Rook strides over to the pair of them.

“Good evening,” he says, trying to sound as un-Canadian as possible. It’s not that his accent is particularly strong, he’d just rather not give Drubman Sr. any excuse to get any more pissed off. “We got a report about a suspicious trespasser?”

Drubman Sr. gives Rook an ugly, dismissive glare.

“Only one suspicious trespasser here,” he mutters. “You’re damned lucky I ain’t shot you on sight.”

“Daddy, he’s just trying to help,” Hurk Jr. says, patting his father’s shoulder. He addresses Rook, much more respectfully than his father did. “Yes, sir, we been seeing a real suspicious someone on our property for a while now, and today he got pretty near the house. Wouldn’t normally call, but he had a gun and he was looking around a lot and, I dunno, I just got a little worried. You mind checking it out?”

“When you say suspicious, what do you mean by that?” Rook asks. 

“Well, y’know, he was just kinda...” Hurk Jr. shrugs. “He was just real shady-looking is all.”

Rook scowls. Hurk Jr. could not have been any less helpful if he’d tried.

“If you’re going to tell me you called me out here about those New York tourists, I’m charging you for wasting police time,” Rook says. The words come out more harshly than he intend, and Hurk Jr. looks sheepish, giving an awkward laugh.

“Naw, nothing like that, man,” he says. “Sorry to trouble you like this, I know y’all are busy. But there was some guy with a gun wandering around our property. He was pretty far off, and by the time I got over he was already gone. I seen him a couple times now— Daddy threatened to go over and shoot him, but I said to him, hey let’s let the cops solve this one, huh? And here y’all are."

Rook blinks. Okay. An actual problem. He fishes his notebook out of his pocket, flips it open as he readies a ballpoint pen.

Rook glances up at Hurk Jr. He seems okay, as cheerful-awkward-nice as he always is. Shouldn’t have gotten mad, Rook thinks. Just as bad as Drubman Sr. He'll apologise before he heads back to the station. Or maybe at the next Rye barbecue.

“Can you describe the man?” Rook asks.

“Sure thing,” Hurk says, and he rattles off a lengthy description: the man was tall, easily taller than Rook. Maybe six-two or so. “Uh, he had bright red hair, real bushy like. Big beard and stuff. And he had a dog. A really big dog. Like, a gigantic white wolf thing.”

Rook writes Hurk’s description down. Dark clothes, including an overcoat. Probably carrying a shotgun, or maybe a hunting rifle. Either way, could be dangerous. Rook relays that information back to Nancy, through the handheld he keeps on his belt, and Hurk Jr. gives him the last known location of this stranger: the northernmost point of the Drubman’s land, near the river.

“Ain’t come near the house yet,” Hurk says. “Good thing, too, else Daddy would’ve shot him by now.”

Rook nods. Yeah, sounds about right. Lot of itchy trigger fingers in these parts.

“I’ll go take a look,” Rook promises.

“You need any help?” Hurk Jr. asks, eagerly. Jesus. He’s like a human golden retriever.

“I’ll be okay, but thanks,” Rook says, and heads out.

The Drubman family’s lot is much bigger than one would expect. It runs a couple miles north from the driveway, and stretches east up the mountainside. Rook sticks near the river, until he spots a flash of silver in the grass on the riverbank, pretty close to where he’d estimated the last known location of the stranger to be.

Moving closer, it looks like a disassembled bear trap, the metal half-rusted. No, not rusted, Rook realises. Blood, half-dried. He frowns. Human? Or animal? Did Drubman Sr. plant this to catch the trespasser? Rook fishes out his phone, takes a picture, and looks around. He’s never been very good at tracking, despite Nìnna’s best efforts to teach him. Never quite had the eye for detail— but if there’s someone bleeding out, he needs to find them. Help them.

Rook spots something that could be blood in a patch of bare earth. A trail?

He wanders over. Yes— there’s another splatter a couple metres away.

Rook follows the blood trail. It’s slow-going— it’s getting hard to see in the amber light— but he makes it. And, after a few minutes, he spots something, nearly hidden amongst the trees and the undergrowth a couple metres away.

Rook strides forward. A dark shape— a tent, maybe big enough for three men, pitched under the trees. Next to it, an empty fire pit, a small metal pot suspended above it. Most notably, there’s a wolf lying still on the grass nearby. It’s injured: its leg is noticably twisted, gauze wrapped around its leg. It looks asleep,eyes closed, nostrils flaring every couple seconds.

Someone must’ve set up camp. Likely the person Hurk Jr. reported.

“Hello?” Rook calls. “Anybody home?”

“Who’s asking?” a voice comes from behind Rook, accompanied by a sharp bark.

Rook turns around, slowly. The voice belongs to a man a couple inches taller than Rook, who’s got a thick shock of red hair, pulled into a ponytail, a wild beard obscuring most of his face— though not enough to obscure the scars that make up most of the visible skin. He’s wearing pretty typical hunting gear— cargo pants, a dark fleece, heavy-duty boots and a dark beanie hat. There’s a bundle of dry sticks in one scarred hand, and a dog leash in the other. Said dog is huge: it’s white, looks remarkably like a wolfhound, though Rook’s not totally sure of the breed, despite all his years watching Crufts and volunteering at dog shelters. Some kind of specialist cross-breed, probably specifically for hunting. In any case, there’s no doubt about it— this is the suspicious person Rook’s looking for.

“I’m with the Hope County Sheriff’s Department,” Rook says. “I just need to talk to you.”

“Okay,” says the man. “Talk away.”

“You aware this is Hercules Drubman’s property?” Rook asks.

“No,” says the man. He looks genuinely surprised at that, frowning with his head oh-so-slightly tilted.

“Well,” Rook says, a little unsure of how he ought to continue. “I’m afraid it is. May I ask what you’re doing out here?”

“Someone’s been putting out traps and they’re hurting the wolves we’re researching,” says the man. “I guess that must be Drubman.”

“I guess so,” Rook agrees. “If I talk to Drubman, get him to stop putting out the traps, will you stop trespassing? His son’s having a real tough time trying to prevent him hunting you down.”

“I’d like to see him try,” the man mutters. He looks at Rook, nods. “Okay. I’ll be coming back the next couple weeks, just to make sure the traps are gone.”

“Probably better if I check for you,” Rook says. “Drubman won’t shoot me.”

“That’s a lot of faith to have in an asshole like that,” the man says. He sighs. “Fine. I’ll be gone by morning. I’ll take the wolf back to the research centre.”

“Great,” Rook says, relieved. “You need help?”

“I’ll manage,” the man says, taking a couple long steps back to his camp. He sets the sticks down in the fire pit, starts arranging them so they’ll burn more efficiently. “Just let me know when the traps are gone.”

“I’ll need a name and contact details,” Rook says, and brings out his notepad again.

“Name’s Jake,” says the man, and he rattles off a cell number. “You can find me at the University of Montana research station, a little ways south of here.”

“Okay,” Rook says. He knows the place. Doctor Perkins gave him directions last week. 

“You that new cop?” Jake asks, just as Rook’s about to ask for a surname. He crouches, pulls a brightly-coloured pamphlet out of his pocket, and tears a couple pages off before shoving them into the pile of kindling.

“Yeah,” Rook says. “Deputy Rook. Been here about a month.”

“My brothers speak highly of you. Joseph is a given— he speaks highly of everybody. John, though...” Jake trails off, looks up at Rook. “John’s a bitch. You wouldn’t believe half the shit he says about the people ‘round here.”

Ah. So this is the mysterious third Seed brother. The eldest, if Rook's not mistaken. He doesn't look much like the other two: he's built like a brick shithouse, has bright red, loosely curly hair. If not for his eyes, a bright blue that's almost the same colour and shape as his brothers, Rook wouldn't believe that they were related at all.

“Well, that's nice to hear,” Rook says. “That they like me, I mean. So you’re Jacob Seed. It's good to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” Jacob says, pulling a book of matches out of his pocket. He lights one, places it carefully against a pamphlet page, shuffles back a little as it starts to burn. He looks up, fixes Rook with cold blue eyes. “See you around, Deputy.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Burke is a US Marshal in the game canon, but this is an AU, so... he's now an FBI agent. *shrug emoji* 
> 
> Also, full disclosure: I've never celebrated St-Jean-Baptiste (it's just not a thing in my country), but I figured Rook probably would, since his mother is Quebecois.

Rook picks up an apple and inspects it carefully. It’s unblemished, with glossy crimson skin. A good weight in his hand, slightly heavier than he’d expected. That’s supposed to be a good sign with fruit, isn’t it? He’s not sure. Doesn’t do this much.

“These are all organic?” he asks, and the woman behind the counter nods.

“Yes sir, all the apples here at Gardenview are organic. That one you’re holding is especially good for eating fresh. If you’re looking for something to cook with, we just started picking the sour ones.”

“I’ll pass,” Rook says. “I’m not exactly a whiz in the kitchen. I can boil pasta and bake a potato, and that’s about it.”

“I’m the same,” the woman admits, with an embarrassed giggle. “Lucky for me, my Chris is much better than I am. Hey, if cooking ain’t your thing, we have pie, too. And there’ll be cider in about two months.”

“The alcohol kind? Or the juice kind?” Rook asks. There’s nothing quite like a hot cup of spiced cider on a cool September afternoon, but even when he still drank, he hated the cloying taste of alcoholic cider. The apple pie is honestly tempting, but Rook knows too well that, where dessert is concerned, he has precisely zero self-control.

“Both,” the woman says. “Which are you after?”

“Juice,” Rook says, and the woman smiles.

“You came to the right place,” she says. “We haven’t started harvesting that crop yet, but if you’d like, I’ll put your name on the waiting list and we can let you know as soon as it’s ready.”

Rook gives her his contact details and ends up buying a pound of the red apples. Melanie’s been teasing about his eating habits and lack of cooking skills again— she always does, especially when Maman sends her care packages, mostly containing snacks and candy and a couple home-made treats too. Madeline, at least, is too straight-laced for that. It’s a small mercy, the way his sisters complement each other: where Melanie teases and pushes constantly, Madeline is stern, checking on them both like a mother hen.

Rook takes a photo of his wares once he sets the bag of apples inthe crate he’s strapped into the bed of his pickup. The crate is packed with vegetables and berries he’d picked up at Sunrise a little earlier. Next to the crate is his fishing gear and a cooler— he’ll stop off on the way back home, catch a couple trout, maybe a salmon if he’s lucky. Won’t spend long out there, though. He tried to sleep in a little today, since he doesn’t have to be at work until five, but he didn’t manage much meaningful rest. He’s bleary-eyed and his head is foggy, almost like it’s stuffed with cotton wool. Still, this isn’t a new problem. Rook’s regular coping mechanism— a steady supply of coffee through his working hours— is enough to keep him functional. He’ll be okay. He always is.

Rook sends the photo to Melanie, an elegant reply to her last message: ‘i bet maman needs to knit u a bigger sweater :P’.

Maman’s enthusiasm for knitting sadly did not translate into actual talent. The sweater she’d made for Rook around eight years ago was hideous and shapeless and could easily have doubled as a small tent. Still, it was the first thing she’d given to Rook once he’d gotten back in contact, other than a tearful kiss to his forehead and a hug that’d lasted a solid ten minutes. Ugly and useless though it was (unless Rook suddenly decided to move to the Arctic), it was made with love— so it had a special spot in Rook’s closet, and was worn every Thanksgiving. It also provided Melanie with an endless source of good-natured mockery.

It takes a couple minutes for the photo to send, thanks to Hope County’s sporadic cell signal, so Rook shoves his phone in his pocket and gets going. There are a lot of great places to fish in Hope County, but the one Rook likes best so far is the one at the Lamb of God sacristry. It’s essentially a riverside garden for the church, though it’s far enough from said church that he doesn’t feel awkward going there. It helps that Father Brian is part of the local fishing group— he’d actually been the one to suggest the location to Rook at the last Rye barbecue.

“Ain’t no place more quiet and more peaceful in the whole county,” Father Brian had insisted. “Just give it one shot. I guarantee you’ll love it.”

Rook heads down the highway, Wheaty’s latest tunes blasting through the speakers of his truck. He slows when he spots something on the roadside— a shiny black car, with its hazard lights blinking. There’s a man standing next to the car, holding his cellphone high above his head, so Rook pulls over, steps out. He keeps his hands in plain view, just in case— can’t be too careful, even in a place like this.

“Hey, there,” he calls. “Anything I could do to help you?”

The man looks over. He’s tall, with hair shorn pretty much all the way to his scalp. He’s wearing dark jeans and a full blue shirt, sleeves just short enough to show defined biceps.

“You got a working cellphone?” the man asks.

“Yeah, but I reckon I’m going to have the same problem as you. No signal, right? Hope County’s kind of infamous for that.”

“Figures...” the man mutters. “Then can you give me a ride into town? I need to call a tow truck.”

“Sure I can,” Rook replies. “Though the local mechanic is just about a mile down the road.”

The man shakes his head.

“Thanks for the offer, but I really need to get to town first. I’m here for work, so I need to check in before I do anything else.”

Sounds like the guy has a hardass boss. That sucks— Rook’s has his fair share of those in the past.

“That’s fair,” Rook says. “Fall’s End is only about five minute’s drive.”

The man scowls, and half-heartedly kicks at his front tyre.

“Couldn’t have broken down in town, could you?” he mutters. He sighs, then looks at Rook again. “I just need to grab something from the glovebox, and I’ll be good to go.”

“Hey, take your time,” Rook says. “I’m in no rush.”

Rook climbs back into the truck, turns the radio down a couple notches, mentally apologising to Shania Twain as he does— Don’t Impress Me Much needs to be blasted full-volume to be truly appreciated. Then he checks his phone, just in case: as he’d suspected, no signal.

A minute later, the stranger closes and locks his car doors, and then climbs in the passenger with a plastic folder clutched in his hand. He flashes Rook a grin.

“Thanks,” he says, buckling in.

“No problem,” Rook replies. He performs a smooth turn, heads back to the main road leading to Fall’s End. “Where in town do you need to go?”

“You know where the Sheriff’s Department is?” the man asks.

Rook chuckles.

“Well, I should hope so,” he says. “I work there.”

“Seriously?” the man asks, and then he laughs. “It’s a small world, I guess. What do you do? You a copor something?”

“Deputy Rook, at your service,” Rook says, with a wry smile.

“I’m Burke. Cameron Burke. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Rook says. He can see the town now— the white-and-green of Jeffries’ church and the red brick of the Spread Eagle and the bright blue the Sheriff’s Department. “What kind of work has you coming out here, Burke?”

“The federal kind of work,” Burke replies. 

“You’re here about the case?” Rook asks. If Burke is the FBI agent who got sent down, then maybe this whole sordid serial killer mess is going to be over sooner rather than later.

“I’m here to talk to the Sheriff,” Burke says, firmly but not unkindly. That’s fair. It’s a sensitive case— and even if it weren’t, it isn’t like Rook’s shown Burke his badge or anything. Any local schmuck could’ve driven to the Sheriff’s Department. For all Burke knows, Rook could be anybody, even the killer themselves. Anyway, Rook’s not going to be out of the loop long, not when he’s working tonight.

Rook stops on the curbside near the entrance, to let Burke out.

“Earl is probably in his office,” Rook says. “Uh. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in this evening.”

“Will do, Deputy,” Burke says. “Thanks again for the ride.”

Then he’s gone, closing the passenger door behind him.

Burke isn’t at the station when Rook goes in for his next shift. Instead, Whitehorse is standing in the office, pinning papers and photos to a free-standing board that has a map of Hope Country stuck to it. He looks very tired.

“Afternoon, sir,” Rook says. He recognises the pictures: they’re the corpses found at the lake. He swallows, nausea rising in his throat.

“Afternoon, rookie,” Whitehorse says. “Got the dental records back from the newest victim. This one dropped off official records, too. Used to live in Wyoming, had family up in Missoula. Reckon he was probably hiking his way up, maybe stopped off here for a while.”

“Think he could’ve been one of Pastor Seed’s guys?” Rook asks.

“Maybe,” Whitehorse says. “It’s hard to tell, ‘cause all the pictures I have are out of date, but there’s someone who looks pretty similar to the victim.”

Whitehorse sticks up the final photo from Seed’s collection, and taps a finger against one of the figures it depicts. The man is tall, lanky, a bushy beard and wild hair, like a lot of guys in these parts. Real helpful.

“Can’t really tell…” Rook mutters.

“No, we can’t,” Whitehorse agrees. “But it’s a start. That federal agent, Burke, he’s trying to get in contact with the next-of-kin. Think he’s just as frustrated by the lack of evidence as we are. Maybe even more so.”

Rook looks at the photos of the corpses, as horrible and cut-up and disgusting and rotted as they are. Tries to imprint the images into his brain. It shouldn’t be so hard to catch a murderer, let alone one as sick-minded as this one. Should be easy to figure out who in Hope County would happily carve up a body like that. Who’d happily snatch some random person off the street and do that to them and then toss them in the lake when they’re done.

“I hope we catch this bastard soon,” Rook says.

“Me too,” Whitehorse replies, and he sounds almost as exhausted as Rook feels.

* * *

 

The days pass excruciatingly slowly. The case doesn’t miraculously solve itself now that Burke is here, like Rook had half-hoped it would. If anything, it gets worse: on Saturday, there’s another body, this time washed up at the Forest Research Station on the peninsula near the bridge that connects Holland Valley to the Henbane.

“For the last time, it’s not a peninsula,” Pratt insists, crouching at the far end of the jetty. He snaps a picture of the outline Hudson had laid down when Whitehorse and the coroner took the corpse back to town.

“We drove here,” Rook says, flatly. He peers through the water, still slightly tinted from the blood, hoping to see something, anything of use.

“Yeah, we drove _through water_ ,” Pratt replies, rolling his eyes. “This place is surrounded by water on all sides, so it’s an island.”

“The water was barely a half-inch deep,” Rook says.

“That’s just a— uh... what do they call it? A ford. It’s a ford, which is a river, so this is _still_ an island and you’re wrong.”

Rook snorts.

“Whatever,” he says. It’s not worth arguing. He knows he’s right. 

Rook can hear Burke speaking to the scientists who discovered the body. He’s glad he didn’t see the body this morning— the woman who called it in apparently hadn’t even realised that the corpse was a human, so hideously carved-up it had been.

“Can we take a look at your security footage?” Burke asks.

“Of course,” the lead scientist says. “And... there’s a lookout tower that belongs to the rangers a little further down the shore. The cameras there might’ve caught something. And they have a a radio tower too, right by the shallows.”

“They do? Thank you,” Burke says. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Rook rises from his crouch, intending to go over and let Burke know that he found nothing. And that's when he spots it: a glint, amongst the dirt and rock that make up the lake bed. He reaches down with his gloved hands, into the still-pinkish water, and pulls a diamond ring out of the shallows.

"Huh," Rook mutters. "Wasn't expecting that."

"You find something good?" Pratt asks. 

"Yeah," Rook holds up the ring so Pratt can see. "Found this in the water."

"Hey, we should split the money for that," Pratt says, letting out a low whistle. Rook knows him well enough by now to figure out that he's just kidding, but Burke, unfortunately, doesn't. Worse, he chooses that exact moment to come over. 

"Shut it, Pratt. It probably belonged to the victim," Burke scowls. "Give it here, Rook."

Burke puts the ring in a little evidence bag, glares daggers at Pratt before announcing that they're heading back to Fall's End. Rook, being on the late shift, ends up staying on the peninsula long after the others head back to town, spending the night at the Ranger’s Station. One of the rangers sets him up with a surprisingly good pot of coffee and a mug, before pulling up the footage from the cameras the scientists had mentioned.

Rook honestly isn’t expecting much. The bodies have been washing up on the shore, so they’re clearly being dumped somewhere else. But there’s something that catches his eye, after he fast-forwards through an entire night of research station and lookout tower footage. The radio tower has a camera near the top, which faces southwest. There’s an excellent view of the bridge leading to the Henbane.

“Used to get a lot of smugglers on this island,” the ranger explains. He's an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a lot of stubble.

“Isn’t this a peninsula?” Rook asks.

The ranger scoffs.

“We’re surrounded by water,” he says. “This is an island. The hell are they teaching you kids these days?”

“Uh...” Rook shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Anyway,” the ranger continues, “that’s why we have the cameras. Used to be a big smuggling ring down in the Henbane. Mostly whiskey, but there were drugs too.“

Rook heard a little about that. Old Mr Jessop isn’t going to live to see the end of his jail sentence, and there are a fair few in Hope County who might still hold a grudge over the whole sordid affair. Might be worth revisiting the old case files, in case the old smuggling ring really is connected to these murders.

“Wouldn’t have thought it,” Rook says. “Hope County seems such a nice place.”

The ranger chuckles.

“Wasn’t always that way,” he says. “Besides, every place has its share of shit and silver. Some more than others, if you catch my drift.”

Rook fast-forwards through the tape, slowing down whenever a vehicle or pedestrian shows on the bridge, which is surprisingly often for the first couple hours. After darkeness falls, the bridge shoddily illuminated by floodlights, it’s pretty much the opposite— almost nothing happens at all. At least, not until four-eighteen AM. At that time, a car stops on the bridge. The camera is too far away to make out any details, but it looks like someone gets out, and something falls down to the river below. Then the person returns to the car, and it starts moving again.

Could the object be the body? It was discovered around nine AM by the scientists, so there’s plenty of time for it to have washed up on shore...

Rook flips open his notebook, scribbles a couple notes down, and ejects the tape. He'll copy it at the station.

* * *

 

Sunday evening is a welcome reprieve. One thing Rook has unfortunately discovered over the last couple weeks is that, in this line of work, it’s hard not to take his cases back home with him.

Sunday, though, is Saint-Jean-Baptiste, and in the absence of his family, that means indulging in as much blue-and-white coloured dessert as Rook can get his hands on, and several phone calls to his mother and her relatives. It means sharing this year’s celebration with his new friends and neighbours, at this week’s Rye barbecue— this time, he brings most of the snacks Maman sent down this month (save a bag of Hickory Sticks, which are _slightly_ too precious to share), and in return, Nick promises Rook a Fourth of July he’ll never forget.

“It’s gonna be good,” he promises. “I’ll bend Whitehorse’s ear for you, make sure you get the evening off.”

Rook whittles away the hours with friendly small talk, catching up with his neighbours, and those he sees only as part of his job requirements: Hurk Jr shows up with a six-pack of beer, enthusiastically thanks him once again for coming by the other day. “Ain't had no more trouble. Reckon I got nearly all the traps up.”

Last, but definitely not least, is another meeting with John.

John doesn’t usually call him on a Sunday. More than that: neither John, Jacob, nor Joseph appeared at the Rye barbecue. Rook hadn't really expected to see Jacob, but Joseph and John are sociable enough that Rook notices their absence. 

When Rook arrives at John's house, he can't help but notice that John's eyes are a little pink, that his words are a little more manic than usual. That John seems on edge about something.

Rook doesn’t pry. He needs this, too. Needs to get out of his own head a while. So he lets John lead him up to the bedroom, lets John push him backward onto those impossibly soft sheets, lets John tear excitedly at Rook's shirt, scratching playfully at a nipple.

“Come on,” John urges, lapping wickedly at Rook’s collarbone. “Make me lose my mind...”

John’s tongue trails up, until he finds a sensitive spot that makes Rook sigh. He swirls his tongue there, pressing down. A gentle bite, followed by painful pressure.

“Hey! I have work tomorrow,” Rook protests.

“I don’t,” John chuckles. “Well, I do— but that’s the beauty of working from home. It doesn’t matter if I write up leases and divorce settlements on my couch instead of on my desk.”

“Lucky for some,” Rook grouses, and John grins in response.

“Mm. I’m very lucky, indeed,” John agrees. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

It sounds almost romantic when John says it like that, voice low-pitched, blue eyes heavy-lidded with lust, pupils blown wide.

“I am,” Rook says.

John’s grin gets even wider, and he slides his palm down to Rook’s underwear, pressing firm against his erection. Rook groans, hips bucking upward.

“ _Use_ me,” John hisses, and he squeezes and it feels so good. “If I can walk tomorrow, I’m suing the _shit_ out of you.”

It’s such a ridiculous concept, Rook can’t help but burst into helpless giggles, until his stomach hurts and there are tears running down his cheeks.

“D—don’t worry about that,” Rook manages, wiping away wetness from his eyes. “No lawsuits necessary. You won’t even be able to remember your own name once I’m done with you.”

“Is that a promise?” John asks, eagerly unbuckling his tailored pants.

"Oh, _yes_ ," Rook breathes. It most definitely _is_. 

As it turns out, John makes the most beautiful sounds when he’s being fucked out of his mind. Half-incoherent babble, interspersed with delicious moans and quiet, desperate ‘yes’es. He keeps leaning in, sucking hard at that sensitive spot on Rook’s throat he’d picked out earlier. His nails scrape across Rook’s back, a silent plea for more. Rook will be _marked_ come morning, but he can't quite bring himself to care. Not now, not while he's gripping John’s hips tightly, rocking into him with quick, shallow, teasing motions.

“Yes, more— oh, yes, yes…” John chants, the only sound in the room, other than Rook’s heavy breathing and the frantic sounds of flesh against flesh, the bed gently squeaking beneath them.

John is unbelievably tight, desperately rolling his hips back against Rook to meet each thrust. Feels incredible, even through the latex. Rook can’t help but groan, almost at his end.

“Tell me your name,” Rook murmurs into John’s ear, halting mid-thrust.

John makes a confused noise, squints up at Rook, rocking back against him.

“Huh?”

Rook can’t help but giggle a little.

"Nevermind," he murmurs, and nips John's earlobe playfully. He starts up another rhythm, this one hard and fast and deep as he can, chasing his own pleasure as much as John’s. Wants— no, needs— to get them both off as fast as possible. He reaches down, takes John in hand. Strokes quickly, John’s mouth hot against his throat, the pressure almost painful.

John clenches impossibly tight around Rook, body tensing as he spills over his own stomach, sounding almost pained in his ecstasy. It’s too much, and Rook loses control a moment later, hips stuttering as he comes. It takes a while for either of them to muster the energy to move. Eventually, Rook pulls away, rolling off John. He tosses the condom into the trash as John blindly reaches out for the towel he’d left folded on the bedside.

Neither of them say anything for a while. Only noise in the room is the gently whirring of the fan above them, the soft sound of fabric against skin, and their heavy breathing. Maybe it’s a little awkward, but Rook’s too tired to care. He closes his eyes. He’ll get up in a minute.

“Guess I won’t be suing you after all,” John says, voice filtering through the post-coital haze. There’s still a light sheen of sweat on his skin, his breathing still uneven. “The name thing was pretty hot, too. We should do it like that again. You’ve got a lot of stamina.”

“Thanks. Have to say, this is the best Saint-Jean-Baptiste I’ve had in a long time,” Rook says, and he’s not lying.

The last couple years have been a half-hearted celebration at best, an excuse to drink more than anything else. Since swearing off the booze, there's been little in the way of celebration. A phone call from Maman, maybe. A blue shirt. Maybe a half-assed bowl of poutine, if he got _really_ homesick. He remembers back when he was a kid. Most years, his family travelled over to Montréal to spend the holiday with Maman’s relatives. He can see the blue-white fireworks in his mind’s eye, feel the coolness of the grass underneath him, hear the merry chanting and singing from Grandmére’s neighbours. 

Today has been _good_. It isn't every day he gets to relax like this. To indulge his sweet tooth in the company of good people, to talk to his family for so long, to spend several energetic hours with a handsome man.

“Happy to oblige you,” John laughs, and the mattress shifts, as though he’s getting up. Footsteps. Then there's the soft sound of running water, from a different room.

Rook can’t help but wonder, half-awake as he is, whether John would be the type to enjoy the traditional kind of celebrations Rook always used to take part in whenever he visited his grandparents in Quebec. Settling back on soft grass, enjoying bonfires and endless music as morning stretched into afternoon stretched into evening, with a stomach full of poutine and grilled fish and blue-and-white everything (but mostly cake). Maybe John would enjoy playing _Ostie de Jeu_ with Maman and her family— he mentioned being fluent in French once or twice.

Rook doesn’t intend to, but he falls asleep. He dreams of fireworks in Parc Maisonneuve, kissing someone who tastes like lime and mint, a pile of mangled limbs nearby, blood soaking through the grass, into his shirt and jeans.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get this fic finished before I move. Right now, it's looking like it'll be around 12-15 chapters. More investigation stuff to come next chapter!

Rook blinks awake to soft sheets and a warm arm around his hip. The sun is in his eyes, so he twists his head a little and squints up at the ceiling: high, wooden rafters. Not his.

Rook’s eyes dip down. That damned window, shutters wide open. A familiar bedside table, a digital alarm clock reading quarter to ten. And further down, in the bed, an even more familiar face.

Oh. That’s right. He’d fallen asleep at John’s place.

As if on cue, John shifts a little, beard tickling Rook’s elbow. That’s probably why Rook can’t feel his hand— John’s head is awful heavy. Probably all the information rattling around in there, Rook decides. John likes to remind everybody that he’s an Ivy League graduate. Went to Harvard on an academic scholarship. Probably why he talks so much— never ever shuts up, not even in bed.

John is a pretty guy, but even more so when he’s asleep. Awake, he’s very expressive, his brow always furrowed or his lips always twisted in a frown or pulled into a smile. Can’t sit still for a minute, always moving, pacing the room or fidgeting or something. Asleep, he looks peaceful. There’s time to appreciate the angle of his cheek, the curve of his lip.

John suddenly breathes deep, with a tired groan, and cracks his eyes open. Seems confused a moment, but the expression quickly fades. John glances up. Blue eyes meet brown, and John smiles wide.

“Morning,” he says, voice all sleep-rough. Or maybe it’s ‘cause he was so loud last night.

“Morning,” Rook croaks. He didn’t mean to stay the night, but he can’t be mad that John didn’t wake him up. He hasn’t slept this long, this deep in weeks. Can’t even remember the last time he woke up feeling well-rested.

Could do this more often, he finds himself thinking. Shouldn’t, Rook reminds himself. Not what they have here.

John’s watching him, the expression on his face, in his eyes, unreadable. Hasn’t kicked Rook out of bed, so that’s a good sign so far.

“Sorry,” Rook mutters. “Didn’t mean to overstay.”

“Don’t be,” John replies, sounding surprised. “I should be apologising. I should’ve woken you, but I fell asleep too. Didn’t even remember to set an alarm.”

“Ah,” Rook forces himself to sit up, lest he slip back into sleep. He clears his throat, wipes sleep from his eyes, pulls his numb hand back from under John, trying and failing to flex it. “You going to be okay?”

“You’re in no danger of a lawsuit, if that’s what you’re asking,” John replies, a hint of mirth in his voice. He props himself up against the headboard, barely grimacing at the aches and pains doubtless left from last night. “Though I wouldn’t be adverse to a round two…”

John trails his hand down, under the sheets, fingers brushing just about where Rook’s pubic hair begins. He raises an eyebrow, lips quirking up.

“I meant…” Rook starts, before he remembers. “Oh. You’re self-employed, aren’t you?”

John’s hopeful smile turns into a wolfish grin.

“I can start the day as late as I want,” he murmurs. “Or take it off if I so please.”

It’s a dangerous game, Rook thinks. Staying the night. Lazy morning sex. It’s surely a recipe for trouble. For getting too attached to what isn’t his.

…on the other hand, he thinks, as John’s fingers close around his cock, that sounds like a problem for Future Rook.

It’s easy to let John caress him, roll a slick new condom over his shaft. It’s easy to let his head fall back against the headboard as John puts his hot, wet mouth over the tip, starts slowly swallowing him down. It’s easy to let soft sounds escape his mouth, encouraging John with the praise that gets him redoubling his efforts, face flushing red with a lack of oxygen as his head bobs up and down. It’s easy to let his hips jerk up, to lose himself in the pleasure coiled in his belly. It’s difficult to stop himself whining when John pulls away, climbs up Rook’s frame until he’s straddling his hips.

“Think I’m still pretty open from our talk yesterday,” John purrs, pressing the lube into Rook’s chest. He drizzles some onto his not-pins-and-needles fingers.

John’s right— he is still pretty open from last night’s proclivities. It’s easy to press inside, to find that spot that makes John press back against Rook’s fingers. Easy to prepare him, to help guide John as he sinks himself down onto Rook’s cock. Easy to rock up, meeting the lazy rhythm John strikes up. Easy to lose himself again, orgasm crashing down on him like sleep had the night before. Hard to force himself into action, closing his fist around John’s cock as he redoubles his efforts, slamming his hips down while Rook’s still hard enough to give him pleasure.

It’s not long before John paints his stomach with milky white. Not long before he reaches down to Rook’s jaw, presses their foreheads close, letting his eyes slip shut. Would be easy to kiss him, Rook thinks, absently wiping the cum off his hand, onto the pillowcase next to him. John swats his arm, half-heartedly.

“Night shift tonight?” John asks, still half-breathless. He half-climbs, half-rolls off Rook.

“Start at five,” Rook says. He pulls the condom off, tosses it in the trash.

“Good,” John murmurs. “You can make me breakfast, then.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Rook says. A little presumptuous, too, the thought that Rook’s any good in the kitchen. Joke’s on John: Rook’s never been very good at cooking, save baking himself a half-decent potato.

“Brunch, then,” John says, and then he laughs, swatting Rook’s shoulder. “You owe me that much. I won’t be able to sit properly all day, not without thinking about you. Just think about what that’ll cost me…”

The argument is so ridiculous, so far-fetched, that Rook can’t help laughing. John had said, yesterday, that he planned to lounge in bed, answering calls and emails with some Netflix series playing in the background. It’s an obvious ploy: John’s a lazy shit in the morning, and he’s hungry. It’s almost endearing. Seems like fancy Harvard lawyers can’t be good at everything.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rook promises. “You got bacon? Eggs? Bread?”

“Obviously,” John snorts. “Tell you what— let’s make a deal. You feed me, I’ll provide the coffee.”

“Deal,” Rook says. He’s pretty hungry. He wants coffee. And it would be rude to decline.

Rook pulls on last night’s underwear and pants— much to John’s vocal disappointment. John wipes the worst of the mess off himself, with the ruined bedsheets, and pulls on a pair of sweatpants as Rook pads into the bathroom. He spends a couple minutes scrubbing the lube and god-knows-what out of his fingernails, gargling a little mouthwash before he heads downstairs— a stop-gap until he can get home to brush and floss properly.

He knows for a fact that John doesn’t lock all his doors. There’s two reasons— firstly, Hope County is just that kind of place. Robbery is rare, even for mega-rich lawyers, and John’s got security cameras and alarms everywhere. Secondly, John’s home is the most bizarrely laid-out house Rook’s ever seen with his own two eyes. Seriously. Who has their bedrooms laid out on a balcony that leads down to the ground floor? That’s just asking for trouble. One of these days, a skunk or a wolverine or something is going to wander into one of John’s rooms and cause a real ruckus. And, knowing Rook’s luck, he’ll be balls-deep in a screaming lawyer, and not in a fun way, either.

Not today, though. Rook pads into a decidedly wildlife-free kitchen, bathed in the golden light of morning. John, as promised, is by the coffee machine, filling it with grinds from a familiar Tim Horton’s bag.

Rook grabs eggs and bacon from the fridge, as well as a stick of butter. He shoves some bread in the toaster, sets it to three minutes. There’s a pan hanging above the stove, the fancy cast-iron kind. It takes a minute to get the stove actually working, and Rook sets the pan over a low flame, with a square of cold butter. The coffee machine gurgles promisingly.

“Where are the plates?” Rook asks.

“Cupboard to the left,” someone who isn’t John replies.

Rook yelps, nearly knocks the pan right off the stoveas he turns, heart in his mouth. Jacob’s in the doorway that connects the kitchen to the atrium. His eyes rake over Rook, clearly taking in the messier-than-usual hair and his half-dressed state. Jacob’s eyes narrow a little when he gets to Rook’s neck, and Rook cringes— John must’ve left a bruise, suckling and biting at that one sensitive spot on Rook’s throat. And— shit, his back’s got to be all scratched up.

There’s no way Jacob can’t put two and two together.

“Jake,” John says, sounding confused. Rook tears his eyes away from Jacob’s death glare. John’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed. He looks confused, but not upset. “Thought you weren’t stopping over until noon.”

“It’s eleven,” Jacob says,not taking his eyes off Rook. “Didn’t realise I was interrupting something.”

God. Rook hopes Jacob isn’t one of those overprotective older brothers. Please don’t kill me, he thinks. _Please_.

“Your papers are in the office,” John says. “Got them finished yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Jacob says, finally looking away from Rook. He shrugs his backpack off, rummages around in it, and produces a Tupperware box. “Brought a gift. Peanut-butter coconut. Don’t say I don’t take good care of you.”

“I appreciate it,” John says. “You hungry? I got tofu in the fridge.”

Jacob doesn’t speak for a moment. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Got shit to do. See you round.”

“See you,” John waves an arm lazily.

“Bye,” Rook croaks.

Jacob pauses in the doorway before turning back.

“John? Lock your doors. Cougar gets in here, I’m not saving your sorry ass.”

“Survival of the fittest?” John sighs.

“That’s right,” Jacob replies, and then he’s gone, backpack clutched in his hand. John tuts, and turns back to the coffee machine. He taps the glass with a finger.

“Think that’s enough,” he mutters, and he pulls a pair of plane-patterned cups from the cupboard in front of him. He’s real nonchalant for someone who’d freaked about his family finding out about them, for someone who insists on such secrecy.

Why is that? Did Jacob already know? He didn't _seem_ to have been expecting to see Rook. Then again, appearances can be _deceiving_. 

The toast pops out of the toaster, startling Rook from his thoughts. He throws a couple strips of bacon into the pan, followed by a couple eggs.

“Over easy?” Rook asks. That’s how he usually likes his breakfast.

“Sure,” John replies, pouring cream into one of the cups. He stirs in a couple spoons of sugar. Not Rook’s cup— he’s not fussed about his coffee, so he usually drinks it black and unsweetened out of convenience.

The silence that falls between them— broken only by the soft sizzling of the pan, gentle clinking of cups on the table— is deeply uncomfortable. Or at least it is for Rook. John doesn’t seem to care all that much. Rook plates up, turns the stove off, and sits across the table from John, who’s idly flicking through his phone.

“Do I need to be worried?” Rook asks. John looks up, brows drawn down in confusion.

“About what? Jake?” At Rook’s nod, John shakes his head. “He isn’t the type to gossip. Not like he has any friends to gossip to, even if he did gossip. Anyway, he doesn’t give a shit.”

John had given the impression, on that first evening in this house,that his brothers had a problem with his sexuality. If Jacob didn’t care, then…

“What about Joseph?”

John gives a sharp bark of bitter laughter.

“Joseph is Joseph,” comes the answer. John’s vagueness tells Rook almost as much as an actual answer would: that Joseph is probably the one who has an issue. Not surprising, given that he’s a fire-and-brimstone preacher. Probably reacted the same as Maman, then. Lots of disappointment and Biblical talk. Hopefully fewer tears.

They end up eating in silence. John shoves the plates into his shiny dishwasher, setting the pan in the sink to soak off burnt bacon bits.

Rook heads up to the bedroom, finishes dressing. He gathers his belongings— wallet, keys, cellphone. He’s got errands to run and chores to do before he strolls into the station. Needs a shower, to brush his teeth, to change into clothes.

“I’m heading out now,” Rook says, poking his head through the kitchen door.“See you later.”

“Take a cookie,” John, closing the refrigerator door. He gestures at the Tupperware on the table.“For the road. Jake’s a good cook, I promise.”

Rook isn’t one to turn down dessert. He walks over, fishes a cookie out of the box, and bites into it. They’re not soft as he’d expected. No, they’re hard, almost like a shortbread. The taste, though...

“These are _really_ good,” Rook mutters, swallowing his mouthful.

“Would you believe me if I told you they were vegan?”

“No,” Rook admits.

"They are."

“Jesus. Can I take another?”

“Go ahead,” John replies, clearly amused. “See you soon, Rook. Have a good day.”

“You too, John,” Rook replies. “Bye.”

Despite the pleasant send-off, there’s a knot in Rook’s stomach as he drives back to town. Sure, John wasn’t worried about Jacob knowing about them. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that Jacob is going to keep his mouth shut, does it?

Rook sighs, takes the turning near Rye Aviation a little harder than he intended. There’s no point in worrying. What’s done is done. He wasn’t planning on staying closeted forever, of course. Just hadn’t wanted to be found out like that, not by accident.

Next time, Rook thinks, slowing as he enters Fall’s End. Next time, he’ll come out on his own terms.

* * *

 

Pratt looks relieved when Rook walks through the office doors at five.

“Thank God,” he calls, practically tripping over himself to get up and greet Rook. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you. Burke is such an _ass_ , and Whitehorse isn’t doing anything about it.”

“I think Burke outranks Whitehorse,” Rook replies.

“That’s just what the movies _want_ you to think,” Pratt mutters, darkly. “Anyway. Whitehorse is out right now— he and Burke went to check out the bridge. Joey went with them, ‘cause apparently she’s a qualified scuba diver. Did you know that? I didn’t.”

“Huh. Guess I’ve learnt something new today,” Rook says. “Any idea when they’ll be back?”

“No clue,” Pratt shakes his head. “They went out around eleven, haven’t come back since.”

Pratt pauses, glances down at the band-aid Rook stuck over the bruise on his throat. 

“You all right?” 

“Cut myself shaving,” Rook mutters, and thankfully Pratt doesn’t pry any further. 

“It’s been pretty quiet today,” Pratt continues. “Literally, the only interesting thing that happened was Nancy telling me about her crochet club gossip.”

“Oh? Anything good?”

“‘Course not,” Pratt snorts. “It’s a fucking crotchet club. Apparently Miss Clare has been copying Nancy’s colour scheme for her grandchild’snew blanket. And Randler brought store-bought cookies to this week’s meeting.”

“Randler? Old Wendell Randler? Lives across from Jeffries’ church?”

“That’s the one. Crotchet helps his PTSD, I guess. It’s supposed to be really soothing. Or maybe he just likes stirring up trouble with his store-bought snack ways.”

“Huh,” Rook scratches the stubble at his jaw. “Soothing, eh? Maybe I should give it a go…”

“You do that, and I’m pretty sure Nancy is going to adopt you on the spot,” Pratt says. “Or get you hitched to one of her hot granddaughters.”

“ _Please_ ,” Rook can’t help but laugh at that. “Never going to happen. I told her I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but modest guys are _supposed_ to say that,” Pratt says. He sighs, shakes his head. “Whatever. You do you, I guess. You still up for next Saturday?”

It takes a moment for Rook to remember exactly what Pratt’s talking about. The batchelor hunting party for Drew Fairgrave.

“Yeah, I am,” he says.

“Great,” Pratt says. “We’re meeting up Sunday afternoon, to finish planning out.”

“Oh. Good to know. How much do I owe you guys for it?”

“Uh… I don’t know yet. We’re going to talk about it Sunday. Probably like a hundred for the rooms for the weekend, and then a little extra for gas and gun hire and all that. Unless you’re all set for that already.”

Rook’s got a hunting rifle locked in the safe in his closet. It rarely sees the light of day— Rook’s got his work-issue handgun for the little day-to-day use he has for weaponry, so it pretty much only gets taken out for cleaning and maintenance. He’s used it a couple times, at ranges, but never actually hunting. He’s always used a bow for that, even though he’s exponentially worse at archery. Arrows are generally quieter, cheaper, less paperwork. Easier to clean the carcasses, too.

“Might be,” he says. Probably needs to buy more ammo if he’s going to go hunting. And he’ll have to clean it again. He’ll stop by the Armstrong range on Thursday, his next day off. Sharpen up his skills a little. See if Grace knows the best suppliers around.

“Cool,” Pratt says. “Then I’m leaving, before Agent Bitch comes back. See you, Rook.”

Rook waves him off, before settling in at his desk.

Whitehorse and Burke come back for a couple hours, talking in the office for a while. Hudson, her make-up smeared and her hair damp, only stops by long enough to grab her stuff and answer Rook's cursory questions. 

"Didn't find anything," she says, sounding weary. "Seven fucking hours in that river, and not a goddamn thing."

Rook can't think of anything to say that'll make her feel better, so he just nods. Maybe they can look into the ring they found, he thinks. Can't be that many people with diamond rings in these parts, surely?

Hudson goes home, soon followed by Burke, storming out of the office in an obvious bad mood. 

"Went that well today, huh?" Rook asks. 

"Pretty much," Whitehorse sighs.

It's not long before Whitehorse goes home, too, looking more exhausted than Rook's ever seen him. Not that he has a whole lot of experience, having been in Hope County _maybe_ a month. 

The air outside is stagnant and still. It's a boring night. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little strange, mostly being a set-up for later chapters. still, i hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> full disclosure (again): no, seriously, i don't know a goddamn thing about law enforcement, much less in the us.

It’s not only Monday night that’s boring. It’s the whole damned _week_.

Rook knew, of course, that rural policing wasn’t exactly going to be an action-packed Hollywood extravaganza. He knew that his hours would mostly be spent catching up on paperwork and patrolling the county and whatever small duties Whitehorse found for him, not investigation. And he’d been okay with that. It had been why he’d applied for the position in Hope County— he wanted the peace and the quiet, the slow pace of rural life. 

Rook had liked the idea of being bored, right up until the dead bodies started showing up. It’s impossible to relax when he knows that somewhere in the county, there’s a sick asshole carving homeless people up, throwing them in the lake. It’s impossible to enjoy the long, golden afternoons and the awe-inspiring sunsets, when he knows that there are three people so far who won’t ever enjoy them again, all thanks to Rook’s own failures. It’s impossible to sleep, at night or in the morning, when he knows that the killer is still out there. 

“Coroner just called. Victim’s another Peggie,” Hudson announces, tossing a grease-stained paper bag at Rook as she strides through the office doors. Rook catches it, opens the bag. The smell that wafts out is delicious— fried potato, something spicy, something meaty, too. 

“Peggie?” Rook asks, fishing a foil-wrapped burger out of the bag. He starts unwrapping it, and a jalapeño falls onto his desk, swiftly followed by a drop of chilli sauce. 

“Project at Eden’s Gate,” Hudson says. “That’s the name of the homeless thing. Nicer than calling them vagrants or addicts or whatever.”

‘Peggies’ doesn’t sound a hell of a lot better than either of those things, to Rook’s ear, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he takes a bite of his burger, careful to lean forward, protecting the desk with a wad of napkins. 

God. It’s delicious, Rook thinks, fighting the urge to moan. The sauce is smoky and hot, a pleasant burn inside his mouth, tingling against his lips. Chunky salsa adds moisture and texture, and so do the fresh chillies. The meat is tender, well-seasoned, and cooked to perfection. Just enough lettuce to make things interesting, something cool and crisp and refreshing to cut through the richness of everything else. 

“Told you, Grill Streak burgers are the best. Can’t get them outside Hope,” Hudson says, a smile playing on her lips. She sits at her desk, starts eating her own meal— her burger has lots of cheese, lots of bacon, and a lot of mushroom stuffed between the buns. 

Rook chews another mouthful, swallows.The fries are awesome— thick and crinkle-cut, cooked nice and crisp, and, in Rook’s case tossed in a spicy seasoning mix. He takes a sip of his coffee, relishes how it intensifies the heat in his mouth.

“The milkshakes are to die for,” Hudson says, wistfully. “Should’ve got you one.”

“You don’t want one too?” Rook asks. Hudson is silent for a moment, and then he remembers. “Oh… shit, I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Hudson insists, brushing off his concern. “Danny’s fine, and so am I.”

Rook would like to believe her, but the way Hudson’s gone a couple shades whiter, the way her shoulders have tensed… she’s not as fine as she’s making out to be, and he doesn't know how to make it better.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, amicably killing time until Hudson can clock out. 

“Whitehorse is coming back later,” she says eventually, rolling her bag and foil wrapper into a ball. “He and Burke are pulling an all-nighter to review all the evidence in the serial killer case. Just so you know.”

“Okay,” Rook says. “Thanks.”

“See you round,” Hudson says, with a smile, and then she’s gone. 

The hours pass slowly. Six o’clock segues into seven, which segues into eight. Rook has just enough to keep him occupied— a couple follow-up reports to write, and then he’ll head out on patrol for a couple hours. Nancy heads home for the night, welcoming Louise in for the night dispatch shift. She’ll probably spend the night studying for her distance-learning course at the reception desk while she waits for a call to come in. 

“Evening, Rook,” Louise says, and she produces a tin of sparkly blue-and-purple cupcakes. They’re decorated sloppily, but with plenty of enthusiasm. “My Alice did some baking this afternoon. Thought I’d share some of the results.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. He’ll need the sugar to get through the last couple hours of the shift. “Speaking of Alice, how’s the family?”

“Oh, well, same old,” Louise chuckles, and launches into a detailed description of the ins and outs of her family life. Her husband, Daniel, is doing just fine— business at US Auto is ticking over nicely. Little Alice is getting real bored of not being at school with her friends, and her older brother, Mark, is preparing to go off to summer camp in the next county. 

“We were thinking of sending Alice off to her grandparents while he’s gone,” Louise admits. “I don’t know that I feel safe with that killer around…”

Rook nods. Makes sense. All of the bodies so far have been adults, but God knows if that’s going to continue. Serial killers usually have specific target groups, but that’s no guarantee of anybody else’s safety. 

“We’ll catch him,” Rook says, trying to sound confident and reassuring. 

“I know you will,” Louise agrees, though she doesn’t sound all that confident. 

Burke and Whitehorse arrive back at nine. Where Whitehorse looks like he’s about ready to drop dead of exhaustion, Burke looks incredibly tense, like he’s about ready to lose his shit. 

“Gotta call a meeting with that Seed douchebag,” Burke mutters, scribbling on a stack of Post-It notes. 

“The lawyer?” Whitehorse asks. “I reckon we ought to wait until we got a suspect in custody on that one.”

“I meant the preacher,” Burke snaps. “Need to set up extra security measures for his—“ Burke pauses “—whatever the homeless rehab thing is.”

“Good idea,” Whitehorse agrees. “I’ll have someone call first thing in the morning to arrange a meeting. Hey, Rook?”

“Got it, Sheriff,” Rook nods, scribbling his own note. “Todd’s coming in right about when I’m leaving.”

“Great,” Whitehorse looks a little more relaxed. 

“Got to check his records, too… reckon he’d let us sift through his office without a warrant?” Burke asks. 

“Not sure,” Whitehorse says. “Probably. We’d have to ask nicely.”

“Need to figure out where he’s dumping the bodies,” Burke adds. “If he’s dumping them the same place, that is. Might be more evidence at the dump sites.”

“Research station on the island is going to have information on the rivers and lakes around here— direction of the currents, all that stuff,” Whitehorse says. “I’d guess they’re being dumped somewhere on the south side of the lake…"

“Sounds like a job for Pratt,” Burke says. “Keep him out of trouble.”

Whitehorse doesn’t openly agree, but he doesn’t openly disagree either. Strange, considering that Rook knows for a fact Whitehorse regards Pratt as one of his most effective officers, frat boy personality aside. Maybe he’s deferring to Burke while he’s here, or maybe he’s just unwilling to stir the pot.

“Security cameras might be a good way to go, too… any along the highways or the rivers?”

“A couple,” Whitehorse replies. “City Hall would have more details.”

“Something else for the morning, then,” Burke scribbles another note, and the planning continues. 

Whitehorse excuses himself around ten, but Burke stays for longer. He’s still there, bent over Whitehorse’s desk when Rook gets up and shrugs on his jacket, his paperwork finally dealt with. The air can get awful cold at night, even in the height of summer. 

“See you later, sir,” Rook says. “Heading out on patrol now.”

“Uh-huh,” Burke mutters, waving him off.

Before the door closes behind Rook, he catches six words on the edge of his hearing. 

“God, I _hate_ this fucking place.”

* * *

Saturday night is exactly the same as the rest of the week. There’s little to do this time of year. A few speeders on the highway leading through the county, and there are some reports of a couple assholes setting off fireworks even though the Fourth of July isn’t until next week.

“Don’t get complacent,” Whitehorse warns Rook, clearly seeing the lethargy setting in. “Next week is going to be crazy, especially with you and Pratt going off on that trip.”

“I know, sir,” Rook says. “Lot of drunk and disorderlies, I guess?”

“There’s that,” Whitehorse says. “And there’s the drink-driving and the shooting and… well, there’s all sorts. Last year, I had a bunch of complaints from tourists about badly-behaved locals. Some words were exchanged, lotta people got upset. Whole thing was a mess.”

“I don’t envy you,” Rook says. “How’d you fix that?”

“Went out and spoke to ‘em,” Whitehorse says. “Reminded them the kind of person I am, the kind of town this is, the kind of people I know ‘em to be. Took a while, but they all backed down in the end.”

Rook can imagine that, Sheriff Whitehorse strutting into the middle of a showdown, disarming it with fatherly disappointment. Rook doesn’t have that kind of presence, that kind of reputation yet, but he will do eventually. 

John stops by the station not long after Rook’s shift begins, Mayor Minkler accompanying him. John winks at Rook, the angle just enough to stop anybody else from seeing it, and deposits a small box of cookies on the desk. 

“Jake sends his regards,” John grins, then gestures at Minkler. “Have you met Virgil yet?”

Rook nods. He’d had to submit a couple documents to the Fall’s End City Hall— a small building across the street— to get his driving license renewed a couple weeks back. He’d met Minkler briefly then. He’s a tall, but portly man, with a meek, timid personality. 

“Yes, we’ve met,” Minkler says, and he shakes Rook’s hand enthusiastically. “Good to see you again, Rook. How are you?”

“Good, thank you, sir,” Rook replies. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Pratt should have a couple records ready for me,” John says. “I’m here to pick them up.”

“I’m here to see Whitehorse— is he around?” Minkler asks, hopefully.

“He went out to grab a bite, but he’ll be back in about ten. You want to wait in his office? We’ve got some coffee brewing, or some of Hudson’s tea.”

“Tea would be great,” Minkler looks relieved. “Is that federal agent around, too?”

“No,” Rook says. “I don’t reckon he’s coming back tonight, either.” 

Burke had seemed frustrated when he left, but it would be unprofessional to let that slip. 

Minkler looks disappointed. 

“Oh,” he says. “Well, never mind. I just wanted to make sure he’s doing okay here. I know he’s probably used to more exciting places.”

“I’ll tell him you stopped by,” Rook promises. “How do you like your tea?”

“No cream, two sugars, please,” Minkler says, and he heads into Whitehorse’s office, leaving John and Rook alone. 

“I’ll get Minkler’s tea brewing, and then we can find your records,” Rook says. “Staci’s desk is a mess, but it’ll be around somewhere.” 

John smiles. 

“I’m in no hurry,” he replies. 

Boiling the water for the tea takes a couple minutes longer than finding a sufficiently nice cup and adding a teabag and the sugar. John stays close, but uncharacteristically quiet, unwilling to take his eyes off Rook for a minute. He sidles up real close to Rook, close enough that their shoulders brush, and Rook can feel the heat of his body.

“I was thinking,” John says, in a low voice, when the kettle starts to whistle and Rook takes it off the heat. “That desk of yours looks real uncomfortable. Your back is all stiff, your shoulders all knotted up. Maybe I could help you with that.” 

Rook recognises the sultry note in John’s voice immediately.

“You can massage me as much as you want tomorrow,” he replies, in an equally low tone. He pours the boiling water over the tea. “I’m working now.”

John pouts. 

“I was told the bathroom here is very spacious…” he tries again. 

“This isn’t a negotiation,” Rook says, stirring the cup. “I’m not having sex at work. I like this job. I want to keep it as long as possible.”

“Whitehorse wouldn’t fire you,” John says. “Anyway, nobody would know if we were careful.”

“I’d know,” Rook says. “Come on, use that brain of yours. I’m the only officer on duty right now. Whitehorse is on break, Nancy is on Dispatch. If something happens, I have to be ready to deal with it.”

John scowls. Clearly he’d been planning something. 

“We can do whatever you want in that office of yours tomorrow,” Rook says. “If you want, I'll make sure you can’t ever sit behind that desk again without thinking about my mouth. But we’re not doing anything here.”

“You’re no fun sometimes,” John huffs, but there’s no venom in his words, his body language still open and friendly. He seems to consider the matter settled. He follows Rook out of the kitchenette, making a beeline for Pratt’s desk, overflowing with littered papers and trash. 

Rook takes the tea to Minkler, who’s settled into Whitehorse’s office nicely. He’s squinting down at his cellphone, which is one of the old flip-phone models with the large buttons, very slowly texting somebody. The tilted head and the frown, the slow-but-practiced movements… For a moment, Minkler looks just like Nínna. 

“Thank you, Deputy,” Minkler says, when Rook puts the cup on the desk before him. He scrambles to put his cell back in his pocket. 

“No problem, sir,” Rook replies. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Finding John’s documents takes a while, especially since John insists on ‘helping’ by keeping a hand on Rook’s shoulder, sliding his fingers toward Rook’s throat in a gentle, careful caress.

“What’s _this_?” John asks, sounding faintly amused as his fingers tease the edge of the band-aid covering Rook’s half-healed love bite. 

“You know exactly what that is,” Rook replies, rifling through Pratt’s top drawer. He has a strict filing system, but Rook has no idea how it’s arranged. Wait. No... he _does_. It’s reverse-alphabetical, then chronological, then further divided into colours that Rook doesn't have the energy to puzzle out. 

John chuckles, and draws his hand away from Rook’s throat. Instead, his hand splays over part of Rook’s shoulder and collarbone, his fingertips sliding maddeningly against the cotton of Rook’s shirt. 

“Pratt usually puts everything in a brown envelope,” John says, helpfully. He flicks through the pile on top of the desk. “You know, those big manila ones.” 

Rook closes the drawer, then opens the one beneath it. He spots the envelope easily enough— it’s balanced on top of a hunting magazine and a ball of yarn. Said yarn is bright blue and attached to a badly-crocheted, lumpy circle, a hook spearing the two together. Pratt’s desperation to get on Nancy’s good side knows no bounds, it seems. 

“This one has your name on it,” Rook says, handing it to John, who opens it. 

“Yes, that looks about right,” John says, pulling the first paper out halfway. He slides it back, winks at Rook. “Thank you for helping me, officer. I don’t know _how_ I’m going to make this up to you.”

Rook sighs. 

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” he says. “For now, just let me work in peace.”

John chuckles. 

“I admire your dedication to your duty,” he says. “Fare thee well.”

John leaves Rook with a light, playful slap to the backside, sauntering away before Rook can protest. Rook groans, rubs his eyes. Night’s only just begun and he’s already exhausted. _Jesus_. 

Whitehorse comes back a couple minutes later, tosses an apple Rook’s way, and heads into the office to greet Minkler— Nancy must’ve told him on the way in. All in all, the night is just as dull as Rook had been expecting. Minkler and Whitehorse only talk for about a half-hour, and for the first time since this whole serial killer mess began, Whitehorse heads home before the sun sets. 

It's a boring night, all in all, giving him plenty of time to dwell on John's oddly sensual behaviour. Or at least, it is right up until Louise sends Rook out around eleven-thirty, to deal with a disturbance in the Henbane. 

“Noise complaint,” she says. “Honestly, it’s impressive. Pastor Seed and the Chisholm family called about smoke and disco music coming from the old trailer park. It’s supposed to be being renovated, but…”

“…You think someone’s up to something?” Rook asks. Louise shrugs.

“Can’t say for sure, but you know it’s something bad if Pastor Seed is complaining, and those Chisholms aren’t the kind of folks to stir up trouble over nothing. If they were, 8-Bit couldn’t survive, no matter how good the pizza is.”

“I’ll go take a look.”

The sun is near enough set by the time Rook gets to the trailer park. He’d seen the smoke rising over the hilltops since he turned the corner near the fertiliser plant. There’s a lot of it— no wonder the neighbours had been so worried. He flicks the lights and siren on, and presses a little harder on the accelerator. 

Rook turns into the entrance to the park a little too quickly, wheels squealing unpleasantly against the asphalt, and his heart stops. He reaches for his radio, quickly bringing it to his lips.

“Dispatch? Gonna need a fire crew up at Moonflower,” he says.

“Affirmative, calling now,” Louise replies, so Rook leaves the car, his legs like jelly. 

There’s fire everywhere in the trailer park, thick smoke stinging at his eyes, even at this distance. Worse, he can hardly hear himself— there’s something in that inferno blasting classic disco tracks. 

He has _no_ idea what to do. 

“Hello?” Rook yells, loud as he can. He’s drowned out by the sound of the music. He takes a couple steps closer to the blaze. 

Nobody is supposed to live at the park, but he can see a beat-up truck just outside the entrance. Looks like there’s at least one person here. Rook chews his lip. He’s got to get them out, somehow. 

Shit. His training didn’t cover this. This isn’t his job, not by a long shot, but he can’t just do _nothing_. 

Something inside the inferno explodes, and the music cuts out. 

“Is anybody here?” Rook yells, blood running cold. He takes a couple steps closer to the entrance, squinting at the flames. There’s a clear area in the middle, which might have once been a kid’s playpark. Most of the ground is clear of fire, but all of the buildings are on fire. He coughs, choking on the acrid smoke in the air. “Shout if you can hear me!”

There are footsteps, and Rook wipes his eyes, peering at the direction of the sound. There’s a dishevelled man, half-covered in soot and ash, jogging toward him. 

“Hey, chill out, will you?” the man calls, coming to a stop near Rook. He wipes at the soot on his face with a filthy sleeve, doing little but smearing the ash around on his skin and facial hair. He looks familiar, somehow. “Everything’s just fine out here.”

“Is there anybody else in the park, sir?” Rook asks, ignoring him. 

“No, just me, but it’s all fine, so you can go, dude,” the man says, with a shrug. “That’s what I’m gonna do, so you might as well, too.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop,” Rook says, and the man does, crossing his lanky arms defensively. Rook gestures at the inferno, coughs again. “Do you have something to do with this?”

“Uh.. well, I was testin’ out the gear I got for the Fourth of July, but somethin’ went wrong,” the man says. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure it was the nitroglycerine.”

“The explosive component?” Rook asks, in disbelief. Jesus _Christ_.

“Yeah, I was just testing something out,” the man insists. “Didn’t pan out, no harm done, ya dig?”

“The park is _on_ _fire_ ,” Rook says. He can hear the sirens of the fire crew, echoing across the valleys and the ditches and the cliffs of the Henbane. He unclips the handcuffs on his belt. “Sir, please hold your hands out. I’m arresting you on suspicion of arson.”

“Seriously? Come on!” the man protests, but he doesn’t fight back when Rook cuffs him. “This is totally unfair, and also against my rights as a US citizen.”

“It’s really not,” Rook replies. "Also, you're going to need a lawyer."

The man makes a disappointed noise, but doesn't say anything else for a while.

The fire crew turn up just as Rook’s putting the man into the backseat, having read him his rights and informed Dispatch of the situation. Turns out he’s the infamous Sharky Boshaw, cousin of the jolly, portly Hurk Jr. 

“I didn’t even hurt anyone,” Sharky complains. 

“You set a trailer park on fire,” Rook replies, pulling out onto the main road. 

“On accident!”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Rook says. Jesus Christ, this guy is unbelievable. 

Sharky is quiet for a few moments, until they pass the junction that leads to 8-Bit and Boshaw Manor. 

“Oh, dude, can we stop by my place for a spell? I wanna grab—“

“No,” Rook interrupts him. “Station first.”

“I don’t want to spend the night in the cells,” Sharky protests. 

“Then you shouldn’t have burnt down the trailer park,” Rook replies. 

“Why’re you so torn up over that? Ain’t like I was hurting anybody,” Sharky mutters. He continues to mutter under his breath about the unfairness of it all, how Rook has no call to be such an ass over a tiny little fire like that. 

“We had to call the fire brigade,” Rook says, leading Sharky into the station. “That’s not ‘a tiny little fire’.”

Whitehorse has long gone home by that point, and Sharky drags his feet all the way through processing. Literally, when Rook finally has to lead him to the overnight cells.

“C’mon, man,” Sharky whines, shuffling into the cell. “Can’t I just sit in the office for the night? I’ve learned my lesson, I swear. It’s so boring in here.”

“Procedure is procedure,” Rook says, closing the cell door and locking it firmly. “Sure you don’t want to use that phone-call yet?”

“Who’s going to answer?”

“Guess you have a point,” Rook says. “It is pretty late." He sighs. "I'll see you in the morning, sir. Let me know if there's anything you need.”

“Can I at least have the radio on?” Sharky asks, and Rook obliges him by turning the office music up a couple extra notches, moving it nearer the door. 

With little else to do, Rook turns to his paperwork.  He calls the fire department, giving them all the information he can, and getting the information he needs for tonight’s reports in turn. Sharky had been telling the truth, nobody else, alive or dead had been found at the remains of the trailer park. Tests still need to be run, but it looks like the cause of the fires was shitty electrical engineering, coupled with badly-stored flammables. Sharky’s parents are technically the custodians of the trailer park, but Adelaide Drubman is the actual owner: Rook calls her, and when he predictably gets no answer, leaves a voicemail message explaining the situation. 

Saturday morning dawns grey and cold, more like a November morning than July. There’s a steady drizzle of rain falling from the sky when Rook finally leaves the station, Hudson— an _angel_ — promising to check what he’s done so far and finish up for him, to let Whitehorse know what’s happened. 

“Sounds like you did good, Rookie,” she says. “Go home and sleep.”

So Rook does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coming up next chapter: more plot and more smut and more words generally.


	8. Chapter 8

Drew Fairgrave is every bit as welcoming and friendly as his father and sister. Even though they’ve barely spoken, a quick ‘hello’ a couple weeks back, Drew greets Rook enthusiastically the second he steps into the Spread Eagle.

“Hey, Rook, over here!” Drew waves him over to a table occupied mostly by people he doesn’t know, though there are a couple faces he recognises, including Jenkins, who’s in the local fishing group, Pratt, and Nick Rye. There’s already a glass of ice and a can of Sierra Mist sitting in front of the seat he’s given. 

“Dad said that’s your usual,” Drew says, gesturing at the glass. “Let me know if you want something else— drinks are on me tonight.”

“That’s dangerous talk, you know,” a tall, lanky man laughs.

“Gonna bleed you dry,” Pratt adds.

“Thanks,” Rook says, sliding into his chair. “We waiting on anybody else?”

“Maybe Chris?” another guy— short, with a blue shirt— suggests. 

“Naw, Chris ain’t coming tonight,” Nick shakes his head. “Kid started puking at the barbecue earlier. Reckon the poor thing caught a bug. I told him I’d tell him whatever we decide tonight.”

“That’s real nice of you, Nick,” Drew says. “You want me to grab paper or whatever?” 

“Nah, got some right here…” Nick digs through his pockets, producing a small notepad and a ballpoint pen. 

The plan is to head out on Friday, around noon. Good thing about these parts is that most people don’t work the usual nine-to-five. 

“I get enough shit done Wednesday and Thursday, it’ll be fine,” Stevens, one of the guys at Sunrise Threshing, shrugs. “Pa’s got help for the weekend.”

Parking at the hotel is expensive, so they’re going to ride-share. Rook offers up his truck: he’s got three spare seats for passengers, and there’s plenty of room in the bed for bags and equipment. Similarly, the rooms are to be shared in pairs: Nick agrees to share with Drew, as a “good influence”. Pratt quickly volunteers to share with Rook, and for that Matthew is thankful— he’s not _adverse_ to sharing a room with strangers, but it’s more definitely more pleasant to share with someone he actually knows.

Planning the itinerary takes a long time— beside good-natured (if energetic) disagreements on the best route to take up to Missoula, nobody can agree on where to go. There’s no shortage of bars in the city, nor outside of it either.

“C’mon,” Pratt says, pointing at his phone screen. “We have to go to this one— the waitresses wear booty shorts.”

“No, this is Drew’s last night of freedom…” Richards shakes his head. “It’s got to be a strip club. The one on Main Street is the best…”

“Y’all keep talking about strip clubs and Kim ain’t going to let me go,” Nick tuts. “No, we’re best going somewhere quiet. You want a stripper so bad, you can hire one to come back to the hotel.”

“I really don’t want a stripper,” Drew says. “That’s off the table, okay?”

“Boo!” 

Despite Drew and Nick’s attempts to keep the conversation on-track, it quickly dissolves into endless jokes, friendly ribbing mostly at Drew’s expense. Even though they’re not getting far with the planning, Rook can’t help laughing at Jenkin’s dry humour, nor Pratt’s wild stories. 

It’s about eight when the bell above the Spread Eagle door rings, the door opening with more force than strictly necessary. 

“Shit,” Pratt mutters, the grin slipping from his face. “It’s Burke.”

Rook turns around to look. 

Yeah, it’s Burke. He takes several long strides to the bar, sits down, and snaps his fingers to get Mary-May’s attention. 

“He’s in a shitty mood,” Pratt grimaces. “He yelled at me earlier for taking too long on my break. Honestly thought he was going to yell himself to cardiac arrest.”

Burke does look like he’s in a shitty mood. Can’t see his face all that well from here, but the way Mary-May doesn’t bother with her friendly barmaid spiel speaks volumes, pouring him a couple measures of the nicest whiskey on the shelf with her mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“Why’re you worried? You’re off the clock, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but I still have to work tomorrow,” Pratt mutters back. “He’s going to be a dick if he sees me here, I just know it…”

“I have to leave soon anyway,” Rook says. “Got some stuff to do. I’ll see if I can’t persuade him to go home early.”

“Oh, man, _thank you_ ,” Pratt breathes, looking utterly relieved. “Drinks are on me in Missoula.”

“Let me know whatever you guys decide here,” Rook says. “And I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Pratt says, and as soon as Rook stands, he’s met with a couple groans and a protest or two.

“Leaving already, Rook?”

"One more drink! C'mon!"

“Got some stuff to take care of,” Rook explains, again. “See you Friday.”

There’s a chorus of “goodbye”s and “see you”s as Rook heads to the bar. Burke doesn’t look up, just knocks back his glass in one shot, setting it back down with a heavy thump. 

“Another,” Burke says, and Mary-May casts a furtive glance at Rook. 

SORRY, Rook mouths, with a grimace, and Mary-May nods a tired smile on her lips as she refills Burke’s glass. Burke doesn’t even look up. He just knocks it back, takes a deep breath, and rubs his eyes. 

“You okay, sir?” Rook asks, sliding into the seat next to him. “Coke, please, ma’am.”

“Am I okay?” Burke gives a bitter laugh. “Do I _look_ okay to you?”

“Don’t like to make assumptions, sir,” Rook replies. “You up to talking about it? My mom always used to say that a problem shared is a problem solved.”

Burke scoffs, but he turns away from his glass to meet Rook’s worried gaze. There’s a worrying twitching at his temple, his brows drawn down into a furious scowl. 

Burke doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just glares at Rook. Mary-May sets a glass of Coke and ice at Rook’s elbow, busies herself with wiping non-existent stains off the counter a couple feet further down.

“You know that arsonist you booked last night?” Burke asks.

“Charlemagne Victor Boshaw,” Rook says. It seems important to use Sharky’s full name. 

“Yeah. That moron,” Burke’s mouth twists and he leans forward, tapping on the wood of the bar. “You know Whitehorse just let him go, don’t you?”

Rook blinks. 

“He what?”

“He let that idiot go. He said ‘oh, he’s no trouble’, even though he burnt down a fucking trailer park. And apparently, this isn’t even the first time he’s pulled this shit.”

“Sharky or Whitehorse?” Rook asks. 

“Both,” Burke answers, and he clicks at Mary-May again, gesturing at his glass. Rook makes a mental note to give Mary-May the twenty in his wallet, as an apology for having to deal with this shit. 

Burke leans forward a little further, takes a slow sip of his whiskey. He’s got impressive self-control— doesn’t flinch at the taste or the burning. 

“Sharky’s done this shit before. Couple years ago, he fucked up the local ice rink, can you believe that? Looked up his record. Guy’s a fucking _lunatic_. It’s a wonder he hasn’t killed anybody yet. And yet Whitehorse keeps letting him get away with it, because he’s ‘white trash’ and ‘can’t afford the fines’. Can you believe that? What kind of justice is that supposed to be?”

“I didn’t know,” Rook says, because he’s not really sure what else he can say. He’s pretty sure he knows the kind of answer Burke wants to hear, but he’s unwilling to badmouth Whitehorse. The Sheriff has shown himself to be a good man so far, and Rook’s inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Hudson mentioned Sharky’s record way back when Rook first started— there’s surely got to be more to the story than that. 

“I don’t doubt that,” Burke shakes his head. “You’re too good to be wasted in a place like this.”

“That’s kind of you to say, sir,” Rook says. 

“No, I mean it. You deserve better than to be stuck in some dead-end shithole, under a Sheriff who couldn’t find his own asshole if it were labelled on a map,” Burke replies, venomously. Mary-May, at the other end of the bar, glances up from her glass-cleaning, and quickly looks away again. Burke starts again, his voice getting louder the longer his tirade continues. “You know, that’s not even the half of it. This past couple weeks, you know how many speeders he’s let off? How many drug addicts he’s turned a blind eye to? I had to bully him into arresting a guy trying to sell me marijuana! It’s a goddamn joke! The law is the fucking law!”

Rook winces. From the hush that’s descended upon the room, he knows that all eyes are on them. So much for getting Burke out of here quickly and quietly.

“Whitehorse doesn’t care about any of that shit,” Burke scowls at the whiskey glass sitting on the bar, half-full of ice. A bead of condensation rolls down the outer edge, slowly. “He doesn’t care about justice, he only cares about preserving peace. What’s the point of the law if you never bother to uphold it?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Rook replies, quietly. To be honest, Rook’s not even sure he knows what justice  **is**  most days.

“This place is a mess,” Burke mutters. “No thanks to Whitehorse and that shit-for-brains Pratt. It’s no wonder you’ve got a fucking serial killer.

Rook doesn’t know what to say to that. He looks at Mary-May, nods apologetically, and gets out his wallet.

“Sir, it’s been a long day. Maybe you ought to get some rest.”

For a moment, Rook thinks that Burke is going to start yelling at him next. But he doesn’t— Burke merely nods, prepared to bottle all his rage up again, and slides off his stool. Rook lays down thirty on the counter, while Burke pulls out a couple bills, tossing them down before walking out of the bar on slightly unsteady legs, his head held proudly high.

“Keep the change,” Rook says to Mary-May. “And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says. “Looks like the Sheriff’s Office is having a real tough time right now, between that killer and Mr Burke.”

Pratt shoots Rook a pained smile as he heads out of the bar, and into the fresh night air. Rook breathes in, forces himself to relax.

John.

That’s what he needs right now.

Rook had promised to stop by Seed Ranch around nine, so he takes the time to head home and prepare for tomorrow afternoon’s exhausted haze. He brings his laundry in from the washing line, cleans and fills the coffee machine, irons his uniform shirt. And then he’s off— hops in his truck, makes the familiar journey again. Turn right at Rye Aviation, head on over the bridge, hang a sharp left at the ostentatious gate John’s got on the entrance to his property. Rook can’t help but wonder if the rolling meadows and fields of wheat on either side of the drive are part of his land, too. Doesn’t seem like they could belong to anyone else, but he’s never asked. 

When he pulls up outside John’s house, there’s another car outside the house. It’s a blue Ford, just old enough to be cheap, just new enough to look respectable. 

Someone else is here. Rook pauses. Maybe he ought to text John, make sure it’s still all right for him to come over tonight. The lights are on inside, and he can just about hear sounds of life within— largely the low murmur of voices. Considering how adamant John had been about nobody else knowing about them, it seems strange that he wouldn’t have warned Rook, that he wouldn’t have asked him to come over later.

Rook’s just pulled out his phone when the front door swings open and Pastor Seed walks out, accompanied by Miss Jessop. 

“Goodness,” Seed says, hand over his heart, obviously startled. “I wasn’t expecting to see you— are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Rook says. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m just here to see John.”

“Oh! The movie night, right?” Miss Jessop asks, cheerfully. She claps her hands together in delight, her pretty braid bouncing on her shoulder. “What are you watching?”

“Uh,” Rook begins, eloquently. Shit. He can’t think of a single movie. Not even one. 

“ _Die Hard_ ,” John says, having suddenly appeared in the doorway. He smiles at Rook. “Isn’t that right?” 

“Yeah,” Rook agrees. “Never seen it."

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it! It’s a _classic_!” Miss Jessop beams, and she bounces down the steps to the little blue car. Joseph turns, smiles at his brother. 

“It’s been good to see you,” he says. “You seem to be doing well nowadays.”

“I’m always doing well,” John snorts. 

“Better than usual, I mean,” Joseph clarifies. “Goodnight, John. Take care— and you too, Deputy. Enjoy your movie.”

Rook nods in reply. Before Joseph reaches the car, where Miss Jessop sits in the driver’s seat, Jacob appears. He pushes past John through the doorway, following the others. He pauses, looks at Rook. 

“ _Die_ _Hard_ , huh? That’s an interesting choice.” he says, somehow managing to make it sound like a threat, and then he’s gone, squeezing himself into the backseat of Miss Jessop’s comically small car. 

Rook watches them drive off, waits until they’re rounding the corner, before he turns back to John. 

“I wouldn’t have minded coming by later,” Rook says. “You know I’m working nights right now. It’s all the same to me.”

John looks at him, his expression unreadable for a moment, until he smiles. 

“They weren’t supposed to stay for so long. They’re usually gone by seven, so I figured it’d be a safe bet.”

“Still,” Rook says. “Next time I’ll come by at ten instead.”

John purses his lips, clearly unhappy about something. He doesn’t say anything, though, so Rook doesn’t pry. 

Instead, John leads Rook out to the office, where he holds open the door with a flourish. It’s a nice room: large and spacious, a desk near the back door, an entire wall of bookshelves along the left. There’s a small bathroom here, presumably for clients, and a seating area with two large, plush couches facing each other. Along the right wall, John’s numerous degrees and diplomas and certificates have been carefully framed and hung, including his Batchelor’s from Harvard, displayed centre-stage. 

“Now, then, Deputy,” John murmurs, moving to stand behind his desk. He hurriedly pushes a pile of papers into a tray near his keyboard, clearing the space as best he can. He glances up, the beginnings of a dirty smile quirking at the corners at his mouth. “You made certain _promises_ to me last time we met…” 

“And I fully intend to keep them,” Rook replies, with a smile of his own. He reaches out to place his hand over John’s heart, gently pushes John back until his knees hit his chair. John understands immediately: he sits, watching Rook as he sinks to his knees. 

If Rook says so himself, he does a damned good job of working John up. John barely has the presence of mind to rifle through the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a couple condoms with hands that tremble as Rook slowly unbuttons his silk shirt, licking a long, suggestive stripe down, teasing at one nipple with his tongue and teeth until the delicate skin starts looking reddened and swollen. Then he moves on, caressing at the muscle under John’s skin, running his tongue around John’s navel, then down again. By the time Rook starts unbuttoning John’s pants, he’s hard as a rock, hot and heavy through the soft cotton of his underwear. 

Rook’s done this a thousand times before. He knows how to give good head. He’s good at reading his partner’s body— recognising when they’re close, guessing how best to tease them. He moans around John’s cock, rolling his balls with his left hand— wishes that John’d bought condoms that weren’t chocolate flavoured because that’s just making Rook hungry, damn it— and when Rook pulls off to take a gasp of air, he pushes two fingers of his right hand into his mouth, wetting them thoroughly. 

John’s looking down, hands clenched white-knuckled around the arm-rests of the chair. Rook smiles again, and John bites his lip, taking a deep breath. 

“Don’t stop,” John urges, and his voice cracks just a little.

Rook obliges, swallowing John to the root as he continues doing exactly as he’d been doing before— though perhaps with a little more vigour. He pushes his wet fingers under John, and though his wrist is bent awkwardly, Rook’s able to find what he’s looking for. He presses gently against John’s anus— not enough to breach him, just enough to tease. He circles maddeningly around the raised, puckered flesh, presses again. A sensual, less stimulating counterpoint to Rook’s mouth. 

John doesn’t last very much longer, not after that. His thighs start to quiver, and he chokes on his own words right before he comes: 

“I— Rook, I’m—“ 

Rook works John through his orgasm, settles back on his heels once John starts making discomforted noises at the over-stimulation. Wipes his mouth, looks up at John. He’s a pretty picture like this, his pupils blown wide open, deliciously dishevelled as he gasps for breath. That stunned, fucked-apart look on his handsome face. Eyes focused on Rook, like he’s the only thing in the world. 

“You think that sufficiently ruined the desk?” Rook asks, a little hoarse. “Or should we try again?”

“Again,” John replies, after a moment of processing time. “Just— one moment.”

Rook laughs, and obliges him. 

(In the end, they manage to thoroughly ruin the chair, and the desk, and one of the couches. John’s undecided about the status of the bookshelves, but more than willing to try again later. All in all, not bad for a hard night’s work.)

* * *

Monday is dull as ever, in the frustrating way that turns Rook’s stomach, instead of the relaxing torpor he deserves to enjoy. Burke has been holed up in the records room the whole day, and Whitehorse has the day off. He’ll have to talk to the Sheriff about Burke’s outburst at the bar. About why he decided to let known arsonist go free. 

Rook’s phone buzzes on the table, and he picks it up, eager for a distraction from poring over decades-old reports. 

_Ennui_ , Madeline has texted. _The word you’re looking for is ennui._

_I don’t speak French,_ Rook replies, and he shoves his cell back in his pocket. He ignores the buzz that signals a reply from Melanie, and the five that rapidly follow, returning to his work. He flips another report page, reading silently.

It should be interesting, examining the old smuggling ring case, but it’s not.  It’s _horrible_. There are no exciting chases or leaps of deduction, no heroic deeds or an uplifting moral to the story. Instead, it’s a slow meander through the worst that humanity has to offer: a town slowly being bled dry, a depressing uptick in drug-related illness and death, and hidden family secrets. The worst part is Old Mr Jessop’s file. Unlike the others— Feeny, Jones, Carter— he wasn’t put away for a handful of drug offences. Instead, he was convicted of a whole laundry list of depravity: domestic abuse, fifteen counts of rape, sexual activity with a minor, molestation… By the time Rook reaches the end of that report, there’s nausea rising in his throat, and his hands don’t quite feel attached to him any more. 

It’s incredible that Miss Jessop can smile so brightly, after all that, Rook thinks, and then he stops himself. No. She probably wouldn’t want pity. She deserves admiration. She’s spent the last couple years healing, building something that’s truly hers out of the ashes of her old life. Something new and bright, something that helps others who’d been downtrodden and hurt, just like she had been. That’s strength.

It's a shame that the Project at Eden's Gate has been targeted like this. He'll have to stop by the Jessop Conservatory some time, try to gather a little more information about the Project...

“God _damn_ it!” Pratt yells, suddenly breaking the heavy silence that’s fallen in the office. “This is such _bullshit_!”

“What is?” Rook asks. 

“This!” Pratt says, jabbing an finger angrily at the papers before him. “It’s bullshit! Looking at fucking water currents isn’t helping anybody!”

“It might help us find the dump—“ Rook starts, only for Pratt to cut him off.

“No, you know what would help us find the dump sites? Actually going out there and looking! You know how fast evidence degrades in the open? Newsflash: it’s really fucking fast!”

Rook opens his mouth, and then closes it. Much as he's being a dick, Pratt has a point. Finding the dump sites is only going to get harder as time goes on. 

“If you feel that strongly, maybe you should go,” Rook suggests. “You have tomorrow off, right?”

“Yeah,” Pratt says, after a moment. He’d obviously expected a different reaction. He takes a deep breath, stretches his arms.“I have another couple hours before my shift ends.” He coughs. "You, uh... You mind covering for me while I'm gone? In case Burke decides to be a douche again?"

"Sure," Rook says, and Pratt spends a moment looking over the map he’s been carefully annotating the last few hours. 

“The bodies were all found around the western part of the lake. So I guess I’ll start at the trailer park jetty, make my way south along the bank. See how far I get.”

“You want a ride over?” Rook asks. “I’ll pick you up when you’re done.”

“No, I’ll be okay,” Pratt says. “Got a bike.”

Pratt looks a little happier when he leaves the station than he did this afternoon, when Rook arrived. But his jaw is still tense, his shoulders stiff, a far cry from his usual laid-back self. Burke’s antagonism might be getting to him— Rook doesn’t know enough about Pratt’s personal life to make an educated guess about what else might be giving him grief. 

Rook settles back, keeps an ear out in case Burke comes back and demands to know where Pratt went. 

The minutes tick by like years. Rook skims yet more reports, reads through court statements and character references. Feeny’s family life sounded difficult, his dead wife, lack of employment, and teenage son. Rook makes a note— what happened to Aaron?

Eventually, though, Pratt’s home-time comes and goes and Rook can breathe a sigh of relief. Burke hasn’t shown up again, either. That’s probably a good thing, because Rook does not want to talk to Burke about last night at the Spread Eagle. 

Rook scribbles his signature on the paperwork he has to file, makes a couple amendments to his grocery list— he has to buy sugar, kitchen cleaner, and dish soap for the station this month. 

Eventually, there’s a call out to the King’s Hot Springs Hotel. Louise is sparse on the details, but Rook winds up picking up a drunk, angry guest who’s been causing a ruckus. Said guest immediately takes offence at Rook’s existence, partly because Rook is there to stop the flow of booze. The other part is, annoyingly, because of Rook’s skin. 

“Sir, you need to come with me,” Rook says, planting himself firmly between the guest and the bar girl. Not often he sees someone so drunk on a weekday— let alone Monday— but he doesn’t have the luxury of dwelling on it.

“Don’t have to do anything…” the man slurs, barely able to keep himself on his feet. Rook can understand why the staff called for help— the man is loud and built like a brick shithouse, even if he has all the co-ordination of a stuffed animal. 

“’S my right. As an American,” the man continues, his words barely comprehendible. 

“Yes, I know you’re American, sir,” Rook says. “But we have laws for a reason, and I need you to come with me.”

The man scowls at Rook, spits on the floor between them. Takes a couple unsteady steps forward, toward Rook

“One of these days,” the man points at Rook, spirits still sharp on his sour breath, “the aliens are going to go back home and leave America the hell alone.”

“Oh?” Rook asks. “Well, I’ll be sorry when that happens.”

“I bet,” the man squints at him. 

“I’ll be real sad about it,” Rook says, and he surreptitiously glances down, to make sure the guy’s arms are in reach. Yeah. He’ll be able to block the guest easily. “When is everybody going back to Europe?”

It takes a moment to process, but the man scowls and tries to lunge for Rook— it’s easy to side-step, deflect his blow. If the guy were sober, it’d be a different story. 

Rook manages to pin the guy down just long enough to snap some cuffs on, and pulls him upright. He makes sure to apologise to the staff, makes sure that the white-faced barmaid is okay before he leaves, gently forcing the drunk into the backseat. He ends up only processing the man for drunk and disorderly behaviour— he's sorely tempted to stick on something for the attempted punch, but eventually decides against it. The man's a racist piece of shit, but it would be unfair to charge him for something Rook goaded him into. "Who watches the watchmen", and all that.

At some point, maybe midnight, Burke emerges from the records room. Looks like he’s given up for the night, his skin ashen, dark circles under his eyes. 

“I’m going to need your help tomorrow,” Burke says. “Think I’ve found a lead.”

“For real?” Rook asks. “Hey— you want to leave it with me? I’ll follow up on it.”

“No,” Burke shakes his head. “Tomorrow. Come in a little earlier say two or three— I’ll make sure you’re paid for it.”

“Will do, sir,” Rook says, and Burke goes on his way. He pauses at the door, looks back. 

“Say, Rook?”

“Yes, sir?”

Burke is quiet for a moment, regarding Rook with solemn eyes. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says. 

“Don’t be,” Rook replies. “We’re all human.”

“No, it was unprofessional, and I put you in a difficult position. I’m sorry.”

Rook pauses, a little unsure of what Burke wants from him. 

“Apology accepted, sir,” he says. 

“Have a good night, Rook,” Burke says. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, sir.”

For the first time since Rook met him, Burke smiles. Then he’s gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains discussion of Joseph's canon baby murdering past (which has obviously been heavily tweaked since this is a 'happy' AU). If this will upset you, please be warned that it is a plot point and will come up later in this fic.
> 
> shoutout to my lovely american pal, tumblr user teamhawkeye, for letting me know that snickerdoodles are not a crisp cookie

Rook glares at his alarm clock. The numbers glowing red in the darkness of his bedroom show 12:18. If he weren’t working nights, he’d probably roll out of bed at this point. As it is, he dropped into bed at seven and stared at the ceiling for God-knows-how-long, completely unable to relax. Minutes ticked into hours, and Rook distinctly remembers seeing the clock read eight-forty-something before he (presumably) fell asleep for a couple hours. And now he’s awake again, his brain ticking over in the way that means he won’t be able to drift back into sleep, not before his alarm starts blaring.

Rook forces himself out of bed, even though he’s still tired and his eyelids feel like sandpaper. There’s no point in staying nested in his blankets. He won’t sleep. 

It takes thirty seconds of clumsy fumbling to switch off the alarm. Thirty more to stretch the discomfort out of his arms and shoulders, crack his neck. Then he’s up, padding to the kitchen to switch on the coffee machine before he starts his morning routine. The tiles are too cold against the soles of his feet. He’s been meaning to buy slippers or something, but never quite got around to it. 

It doesn’t take long to get ready— the worst thing is shaving, because Rook’s been lazy lately, leaving a couple days between each attempt. Just enough time for the hair to grow long enough to clog up the razor. Showering first helps soften his stubble, the blades cutting through with a little less difficulty than the other day. Still, it’s an annoyance he could do without. 

Rook squints at his reflection, pausing mid-stroke. Could he pull off a beard? His facial hair has always been just a little too sparse to consider growing a full beard, but maybe one of those barely-more-than-stubble ones could work… 

He’ll try it one of these days, he decides, rinsing the safety razor, pulling the skin on his cheek taut again. No-shave November is still a thing, right?

When Rook walks through the doors of the Sheriff’s Department, he looks and feels a little more human, fully caffeinated, stomach full of leftover casserole.

“Morning, Nancy,” he says, and Nancy beams at him. 

“Oh, Rook, hon,” she coos. “Just the man I’ve been waiting to see.”

“What for?”

“Well, I was just thinking,” Nancy says, ruffling his hair. “You could do with a haircut, can’t you? Starting to look a little unkept, a little unprofessional. You know, I know this real nice girl, Katie. She’s a hairdresser— I have some pictures, she’s so lovely…”

Rook barely stops himself rolling his eyes. She’s trying to help, he tells himself, even if she's not doing it in an actually _useful_ way. It’s obvious that Nancy’s just using his slightly-shaggy hair as an excuse to set him up with another girl he isn’t interested in, but he _does_ genuinely need a haircut some time soon. 

“Nancy, I really don’t think…”

“You haven’t seen the photos yet, young man,” Nancy chides, without a hint of venom. “Can’t go saying she isn't your type if you haven’t even _looked_.”

Rook can, actually. He grits his teeth. Nancy is going to continue doing this, isn’t she? She’ll just keep on suggesting nice local ladies until he eventually picks one to date. Except Rook can’t do that at all— it would be downright cruel to take someone out, without any actual interest, without any intention of trying to make things work. 

Rook sighs. He doesn’t really have any other option but to come clean. He’d have to do it eventually. It’s not as though he can keep politely declining Nancy’s suggestions for the rest of his life. 

“Look,” Rook says, stepping close to the reception desk, keeping his voice low. “Nancy, I said I wasn’t interested in dating anybody right now.”

“I know, I know,” Nancy sighs. “But if you just found the right girl…”

“That isn’t going to help me, Nance,” Rook says, as softly and as kindly as he can. Nancy is just trying to help, he repeats, a silent mantra in his head. “To be honest with you, I had a really bad breakup a couple months back, and I need more time to get over it. Like, a lot more time.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, hon,” Nancy says, her big brown eyes crinkling in second-hand sadness. “Why don’t you tell me more about it? My mama always told me it’s better to talk about these things, and she ain’t been wrong yet— God less her soul. It might help you feel better.”

Rook takes a deep breath, keeping a careful eye on Nancy, to gauge her reactions.

“His name was Luke,” Rook says. To Nancy’s credit, the only reaction she has is to blink. “I thought we were going to be together forever. I was planning a life for us both— kids, dogs, picket fence, you know the drill. An apple-pie American dream. Turns out he didn’t want any of that. I think we were just too different— you know I’m a worrywart? He was the opposite. He’d pull all kinds of stupid stunts, and then make fun of me for getting worked up and anxious about him. Couldn’t take a damned thing seriously. I think he just wanted the company— someone to keep his bed warm, something to keep him occupied. We argued a lot, and by the end it just fell apart. Really messy.”

“Is that why you came here?” Nancy asks, her lined face scrunched in sympathy. “To Hope?”

“Mostly, yeah,” Rook says. “There were other things too. I wanted a fresh start, and I wanted to be closer to my family— got family up in Browning and Calgary. The drive’s only about six hours to my grandparents from Fall’s End.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear about that mess,” Nancy says. “That Luke didn’t deserve you, and if I ever get my hands on him… Ooh, that boy is going to feel my wrath, you hear?”

“I’d pay to see that,” Rook says, seriously. He can’t help but snicker at the mental image. Luke, all six feet of chiseled muscle and boyish charm, getting destroyed by Nancy and her weaponised grandmother-ness.

“You deserve better, hon,” Nancy says, shaking her head. “A nice boy like you… you know what you need?”

“What?” Rook asks. 

Please say cookies, he thinks. Nancy’s cookies are divine— almost as good as Kim Rye’s. Deliciously cinnamon-y oatmeal raisin, squidgy and soft triple chocolate chip, soft snickerdoodles… just thinking about it makes Rook’s mouth water. 

“You need yourself a new man,” Nancy declares, a little louder than Rook’s comfortable with. “Someone to treat you right, and you’ll bounce back in no time.”

Damn it.

“Let me guess,” Rook asks. “You know someone who fits the bill?”

Nancy, for the first time since Rook met her, hesitates. 

“Well…” she starts. “I know of a few men who _might_ …”

“Might?” 

“Well, in these parts, there aren’t a lot of men with taste like yours,” Nancy says, slowly. “Not a lot willing to admit it, anyway…”

Rook lets out a quiet, relieved breath. Telling Nancy was absolutely the right thing to do, if it means he doesn’t have to go on an awkward, arranged date. 

“I have a couple leads I need to chase up,” Nancy continues. “But you mark my words, young man, I’ll find you a husband, you see if I don’t. You’re going to get that apple-pie, picket-fence future you were dreaming of, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

“You really don’t have to waste your time—“ Rook starts, and Nancy cuts across him.

“No, I do!” Nancy insists. “We only get one chance at life— that’s one chance at happiness. I’ve known too many people who wither away and die unhappy, because they decided to settle for less than what they deserved, and I won’t see the same thing happen to you— oh, no, I won’t, sir. It might take time— Lord knows it’s taken me ten years to get Earl a girlfriend— but it will happen. You just ask Miss Louise who introduced her Daniel, hm?”

“Wait, Whitehorse has a girlfriend?” Rook blinks. Nobody’s mentioned it, let alone Whitehorse himself.

“He does now,” Nancy corrects him. “Now, you better get on in there and get to work, you hear? That federal agent’s been expecting you.”

“Yes, Nancy,” Rook says. Whatever Burke has planned will be more interesting than his current investigative leads, sparse as they are. Before he heads into the office, Nancy catches his wrist with a pink-clawed hand. 

“Rook, hon?” Nancy says, sugar-sweet and soft as Rook’s own grandmother. “No need to look so worried, okay? I know how to be discreet. Just let me handle everything.”

“Okay,” Rook says, and she smiles, letting him head on in. 

That went better than he’d expected, Rook thinks, as he waves ‘hello’ to Hudson. Nancy seemed to take it well, and if she’s running herself ragged on a wild goose chase, at least she won’t be constantly offering Rook one of her or her friend’s granddaughters. It'll be much less awkward from here on out. Hopefully.

Hudson smiles in return, nods, and returns to her work. Pratt’s not here, but that’s not surprising, since Burke is standing at Rook’s desk, flicking through a couple brown files Rook doesn’t recall seeing before. He glances up at the sound of Rook’s footsteps. 

“Good to see you,” Burke says. “Bet you’re wondering why I called you in early, huh?”

“You said you had a lead?”

“I do, and it’s a pretty good one, too,” Burke says. He holds up one of the files. “Actually— it’s two. Hudson’s helping with the other one. Needs a delicate, feminine touch.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Hudson replies, without looking up from her desk. 

“Now, I got a question for you,” Burke says. “What do all the victims have in common so far?”

“They were homeless,” Rook replies. 

“More than that,” Burke presses. 

“We think they were involved with Pastor Seed’s Project at Eden’s Gate,” Rook says. 

“Exactly,” Burke snaps his fingers. “Now, the Project is split over several sites, in each region of Hope. There’s a mental health facility up in the Whitetails that’s offered its services to the Project. The Jessop Conservatory in the Henbane is another part of it— some kind of farming deal, I don’t know. There’s something here in town— some of the farmers and ranchers out here hirehelp through the Project. We’ll check all of those out. But the real interesting part is the one in the middle of Hope. You know Holmes Island?”

Rook vaguely knows of it. It’s a large island in the centre of the lake, used to belong to the Holmes family. It was once a pretty important area for processing local goods— there’s an old mill there, a couple warehouses that haven’t seen use in decades. Not much there nowadays, though, except for the road leading directly to the Whitetails State Park. 

It’s kind of a pain to get up to the Whitetails without heading through the island— the roads to the east and west are too narrow, too winding. It’s the one downside to the beauty of the local landscape— the mountains make travel a lot harder than it ought to be. Adelaide’s managed to take advantage of it, though— her Marina is a picturesque pit-stop for weary travellers and tourists. The second she’s got those cutesy cabins finished, the Drubman Marina is going to be prime Hope County real estate, a strong draw for tourists from all corners of the country. 

“Yes, sir,” Rook says. 

“Okay, so Joseph Seed has this plot of land out there, a— a compound, as it were. You can’t really see it from the road, but from the water…” Burke lets out a low whistle. “It’s really something. He’s got cabins up there for the Peggies to stay in, there’s a garage, a little schoolhouse for those who want to study, even a little chapel. Now, the really interesting thing is the placement of the compound. It’s right on the western waterfront. Now, where were the bodies found?”

Rook’s stomach feels tight. 

“The western part of the lake,” he says, and his tongue feels wrong in his mouth. There’s no way, right? Joseph Seed can’t be involved. He’s a perfectly nice, perfectly normal pastor. Surely John or someone would have noticed if Joseph were an evil killer, right?

“More than that,” Burke says, and he sounds excited. “The southwestern part. All the bodies were found in places they could easily have floated on down from that little waterfront.”

“Are you saying you think Pastor Seed is the killer?” Rook asks. 

“I’m not saying I don’t think that,” Burke says. “But it’s too early to say for sure. We need to investigate further. We’ve got the locations, but not a whole lot else. We need a motive, and we need evidence. So I need you to come with me, act as my backup. We’re going to go down to the Peggie compound, we’re going to poke around a little. Ask Pastor Seed a few questions.”

“Could be anybody with access to the compound,” Rook says. “Can’t be too hasty.”

“You’re right,” Burke says. He points a finger at Rook, excitedly. “See, this is why I like you. You think for yourself. You’re not following along with what I’m saying or what Whitehorse is telling you— you’re putting the pieces together on your own. You’re independent. And that’s what I need in a partner.”

Rook can’t help but smile at that. He’s aware that he’s very new to law enforcement, aware that he lacks experience. It’s good to hear that’s he’s doing well. 

“Thank you, sir,”

“Now, I have my reasons for thinking Seed is behind this,” Burke says. He taps the file on the desk. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

Then they leave. Rook ends up driving, since Burke immediately strides to the passenger door of the cruiser. He rolls the window down the whole way, and spends a couple moments staring at the golden fields of wheat flying past before he turns to Rook, starts speaking. He’s loud, has to be in order to hear himself over the rushing wind. 

“Pastor Seed isn’t such a godly man as he appears,” Burke says. 

“That so?” Rook asks, already knowing that he isn’t going to like whatever Burke’s about to divulge. Please, don’t let Seed be a child molester, he prays under his breath.

“You know, he used to be married, way back when. Was probably a little younger than you are. He and his wife, they had a daughter. Little Faith Seed, cute as a button. Anyway, about six months after she was born, Mommy and Faith got into a car accident and Mommy died. Real tragedy. Honestly, I feel terrible, knowing that shit happened.”

“It’s horrible,” Rook agrees. Maybe that’s why Pastor Seed is unmarried now. He’d thought it a little strange that a self-professed family man didn’t have a wife and kids— Jeffries has the excuse of being Catholic, but Baptists don’t have that same rule of celibacy.

“It gets worse,” Burke says. “Seed tried for a couple months, or at least I guess he did, ‘cause otherwise all this shit would’ve gone down a lot sooner. His big brother, Jacob, was on deployment— he got three days to come back for Mommy Seed’s funeral— and his little brother, John, was away at college, studying or getting trashed, whatever they get up to at Harvard nowadays. Isolation or something must’ve got to Seed, ‘cause do you know what he did next?”

“No,” Rook says. 

“Guess.”

“I… uh…” Rook slows a little as they cross the bridge to the Henbane— it’s always a bumpy ride on that one, leaves bruises on his ass. He’ll tell Minkler to fix it next time they meet, if he doesn’t forget like the last three or four times. “Did… he take it out on her? Faith, I mean. That his wife was dead?”

“Worse,” Burke shakes his head. “He tried to kill her.”

“What?” Rook asks, his mouth dry. 

“He tried to kill his daughter, and he nearly succeeded,” Burke says, way too casually considering they’re discussing child murder. “CPS got involved, took Baby Faith away. He got sent off to a mental institution, where he was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and he stayed there for about nine months. When he got out, he signed the adoption papers, and carried on with life as normal. Like he never even had a wife or a daughter to start with.”

That can’t be right, Rook thinks. Nobody would just get over something like that. There’s got to be more to it than that. 

“That’s why you think he killed those people?” Rook asks.

“Anybody who’d kill a child is more than capable of killing an adult, in my experience,” Burke says. 

Rook hangs a sharp left, taking them north onto the bridge connecting Holmes and the Henbane. He taps the steering wheel nervously. 

John never mentioned any of this, Rook thinks, and he pauses. But then again, even if it were all true, why would he? They’re not in a relationship— they’re friends-with-benefits at best. It’s not like there’s a future between them. He doesn’t even know John’s favourite food or favourite colour— his sordid family history is a whole other level of intimate. Besides, talking about mental breakdowns and child murder isn’t exactly great for setting a sexy atmosphere, is it?. It isn’t as though Rook would want to talk about his own struggles with depression and anxiety halfway through John going down on him, right? It would be unfair to expect that kind of open-ness from John. 

“Should I be worried? About us being here, I mean,” Rook says, turning onto a side road with a neat little sign at the entrance: Welcome to the Project at Eden’s Gate! :). He follows the road until he reaches a very tiny parking lot, pulling in quickly.

“We’re not arresting him or anything,” Burke says. “Just asking questions. Taking a look around. Keeping an open mind. If Joseph isn’t the killer, then I’d wager that it’s someone else who’s intimately involved with the Project. He thinks we’re just there to learn about the Project and help him come up with more security stuff, to keep the Peggies safe. As long as you can keep a straight face, you’ll be fine.”

“Okay, sir,” Rook says, even though he doesn’t feel it. He forces himself out of the car, stumbling after Burke. The dread weighs in his stomach like a lead ball, dragging him down, making it hard to move. His legs feel like they belong to someone else, and not in a good way. 

All in all, Joseph’s compound is a pretty nice place. It’s situated on a pleasant shoreline, with a beautiful view of the western Whitetails as it merges into northern Holland Valley. There’s a small, whitewashed chapel near the waterfront, a cobbled path leading between it and a collection of buildings: about six or seven small trailers, each one painted in pastel colours, shrubs and flowers planted near enough everywhere, to give the impression of a pleasant garden. There’s a slightly larger building, which might be an office or the schoolhouse Burke mentioned, and there’s also a small metal warehouse and a large wooden barn— probably the garage Burke mentioned and a storehouse of some kind. 

There are a few people milling around the property, men and women wearing plain clothes, talking to each other, working on cleaning windows or weeding flowerbeds, or simply sitting with each other, a glass of lemonade in hand. Pastor Seed is clearly expecting them. Although he’s talking to someone— a tall woman with black hair— the second he spots Burke and Rook, he’s walking over with a pleasant smile on his face. 

“Welcome,” Seed says, kind as always. He shakes Burke’s hand, then Rook’s, with a warm, dry grip and a steady, honest gaze. It’s hard to believe that he could have nearly murdered a child. “You’re a little earlier than I was expecting. Would you like to come to the office?”

“Yes, we would,” Burke says, and Seed leads the way. Turns out the larger building is mostly for administration, though there is a second room containing books and computers, a makeshift library. 

“We’re looking at expanding, creating a real library for our patrons,” Joseph explains, seeing Rook’s expression. “Education is an important tool— not only for the obvious, but it also helps build confidence and self-esteem.”

“Makes sense,” Burke says, and then they begin. Joseph ushers them to a small meeting table in the main administration room, and one of the Peggies brings them coffee and cookies. They’re not as good as Kim or Nancy’s, but Rook takes as many as he thinks he can get away with, savouring every sweet bite of chocolate and vanilla between sips of slightly burnt filter coffee. 

Joseph’s records are… sparse. Although he keeps records of who’s involved with the Project, staff and Peggies alike, and diligently maintains the charity’s financial records, and there are schedules for everything from addiction treatment to entertainment, there isn’t a whole lot of the type of wellbeing policies one would expect from an organisation like this. No way to reliably get in touch with each Peggie should they not show up for their scheduled activity. No way to track the progress of an individual, little guidance for the support the Peggies need whenever they decide to leave. He has the bare legal minimum, and no more.

“I don’t like to press obligations on them,” Seed explains. “They need help, and as long as they’re here, they get whatever support they need. There’s a team of professionals I bring in to assess each person and their needs, and… well, everything is a choice. And every person is so unique, you see.”

“Uh-huh,” Burke says, clearly unimpressed. “Well, my first suggestion would be to figure out a way to make sure each person here is tracked. Not in a stalker way, but you need to know more or less where everybody is at all times, and how to contact them. That’s basic safety, even without a serial killer on the loose.”

“I understand,” Joseph says, sounding completely sincere. “We’ll start drawing up plans immediately.”

Eventually, Joseph takes them on a short tour of the compound, explaining how the Project works, how it achieves its goals, and so forth. 

“We grow most of our own food,” Joseph explains, walking through the main garden. “Mostly at the Conservatory, but we grow some things here, too. Beans, for example. Tomatoes. Herbs. And the local farms and stores have been so kind to us— they donate stuff, wheat, corn, canned goods, etcetera. My ministry brings in enough to cover most of the costs of running this place, though of course we also rely on donations…”

Finally, Burke interrupts Joseph, mid-way through a spiel about the minivans in the garage. 

“Thank you, sir, but you mind if we take a look around by ourselves? Just want to take twenty minutes or so to comb over the perimeter, make sure you’re all secure here.”

“Oh…” Joseph blinks. “Yes, of course. Make yourselves at home. Please don’t hesitate to ask for anything you need.”

“Thanks, we’ll come find you when we’re finished,” Burke says, and drags Rook away, toward the church. Under his breath, he mutters: “Bastard’s cool as a cucumber.”

“Either he’s confident or he’s innocent,” Rook says. He’d like to believe the latter. 

“Could be either,” Burke concedes. “Okay, you go take a look at that barn, I’ll take a look over here, we’ll meet in the garden. We’re looking for anything that could lead to those corpses being all cut up like that.”

Rook nods, even though he’s pretty sure it’s a waste of time. If the killer is here, they won’t be operating openly at the compound. No, they’ll be operating in the abandoned warehouse, or the mill. 

The search of the barn produces nothing useful. There’s nothing in there except for spare tools— mostly broken or half-repaired, all clean of blood and gore. Same for the garage: there’s a few trucks and minivans, all painted in the colours of the Project, a couple Peggies working on maintaining them. Rook gets a couple smiles and nods, a little small talk. Nothing useful. 

Burke, when he appears, looks like thunder. 

“Nothing,” he scowls. “Not a goddamn thing.”

“Maybe we should go look at the abandoned buildings on the island,” Rook suggests. “You know. The mill and stuff.”

Burke rubs his eyes, groans in annoyance. 

“Damn it…” he mutters, then he looks up at Rook. “That’s a good idea. Not for today, though. Whitehorse is being a pain in the ass, and I’m tired. I’ll take Hudson over tomorrow or something.”

They take a cursory glance at the perimeter of the compound— which is hard, because it’s not fenced off or anything. Not even a dinky little wooden fence like most of the farmers down in Holland Valley have. Joseph apologises profusely when Burke brings it up at their final meeting of the day. 

“Oh— I’m sorry. I didn’t think that would be a problem. I just thought… well, many of the people here have been incarcerated, and to erect a fence seemed… cruel. I’ll work on it— do you think something like a picket fence might work?”

“Yeah, I reckon so,” Burke waves a hand, tiredly. “Probably go well with your garden theme, right? We’ll take our leave now.”

“Thank you for speaking to us,” Rook says. “It’s been helpful.”

“Thank you for coming up to see us,” Seed says, and Rook can tell— he is genuinely pleased. Almost makes Rook feel bad about suspecting Joseph at all. 

“No problem,” Burke says. “See you round.”

“If you have any more questions, feel free to call,” Seed says. “Goodbye, Agent, Deputy.”

“Goodbye,” Rook says, and Burke just gives a nod, heading back to the parking lot.

All in all, Rook’s glad when Burke hops in the driver’s seat of the cruiser they drove in on. He’s less glad for the silence and the frown etched deeply on Burke’s face. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains mentions of past depression and suicidal thoughts. this will be brought up again in a later chapter. rook's struggles with depression are an important facet of his character. there's also a little more introspection on joseph's past mental illness.
> 
> this is a short chapter, because i had a lot of trouble with it and cut a lot of stuff out. the next parts will hopefully resume the current 1-2 day update time.

The week is quiet. Maybe it’s because of the murders, but this year’s Fourth of July is a hell of a lot quieter than anybody had been expecting. A handful of call-outs, mostly drunk and disorderly, and little else— although Hurk Jr. and Sharky Boshaw do call up and try to bribe Rook into attending their barbecue-slash-fire hazard. Kim Rye stops around with alcohol-free beer and stars-and-stripes cupcakes for the officer on-duty. All in all, it’s a pretty good night.

Whitehorse spends a lot of time collecting information for Rook and Pratt and Hudson to sift through. Stays in his office most days, working late into the night. 

Rook doesn’t see much of Burke during the week, for which he’s glad. It isn’t that he dislikes the man, but it’s obvious that Burke desperately wants out of Hope, and he’s clutching at straws to get the case closed. The more Rook thinks about it, the more obvious it is that Joseph Seed can’t possibly be the killer. Rook’s not totally sold on the idea that the thing with Faith Seed is as cut-and-dry as Burke thinks. 

Mentally ill people are more likely to hurt _themselves_ than other people, even the delusional ones— and Rook knows that all too well, remembers his lowest point a couple years back, when he’d stayed nested in stale sheets for days at a time, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Maman and Nínna and everybody else would be better off if he just didn’t exist, but not having the courage or the energy to do anything about it. If his then-boyfriend, Nathaniel, hadn’t noticed how lethargic and quiet Rook had been, if he hadn’t held Rook while he cried and confessed all the ‘facts’ floating in his head, if Nathaniel hadn’t taken him to the local therapist’s office… 

Rook blinks, bites his lip, tries to shake the memories right out of his head. No, he’s not going to think about that. He got help and he worked hard and he’s better now and he’s never going to go back to being like that again. _Never_.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if things might have been different if Joseph had the kind of help Rook did. He can’t imagine what it must feel like, to be so hopelessly lost in grief and mourning, hallucinations and delusions twisting his priorities so much that he’d honestly believe that murdering a child is a good thing to do. Rook does his best to put the whole sorry situation out of his mind. He doesn’t dare ask John about it, can’t possibly ask Joseph himself, and he’s fairly sure that Jacob would beat the shit out of him. It’s a dead end, and a depressing one at that. 

Instead, Rook focuses on the rest of Burke’s case. There’s no motive, which is the important thing. It simply doesn’t make sense— why would Joseph kill the people he’s trying to help? Why would he sink so much time and money into assisting others, only to suddenly start murdering them? It’s ridiculous. They didn’t find any evidence at the compound either— at worst, Joseph is negligent. That’s a far cry from a murderer.

Rook taps the steering wheel, readjusts the rearview mirror. Looks like Nick is almost done strapping the tarp back over the pickup bed. He glances at the dashboard— he remembered to go get gas yesterday, so he’s all fine on that front. There’s Gatorade and Red Bull in the glovebox, as well as a cooler packed with soda and alcohol-free beer in the bed. Although he’s had a strong coffee to pep himself up, he didn’t sleep all that much last night. Didn’t get much rest at all, despite the fact he’d nearly fallen asleep at John’s after getting pounded ’til late. He’d subsequently spent the rest of the night on his lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling, praying that rest would come. And, eventually, it did. For a couple hours.

“You okay?” Pratt asks, jerking Rook from his thoughts.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rook replies. “You got the map?"

“And the snacks and a fucking awesome playlist,” Pratt grins, holding up his map and bag of goodies— which looks like an eight-year-old went nuts in a Costco candy aisle. 

“You got Airheads?” Drew asks, looking up from his phone. 

“Cherry, your favourites,” Pratt confirms, and he throws a packet into the backseat. “I treat you real good.”

“I should’ve picked _you_ as the best man,” Drew groans, and there’s the crinkling of paper and plastic. “Damn, these are good.”

“I’ll tell Chris you said that,” Pratt snickers, and that’s about the time Nick stops kissing Kim and waves her goodbye, hopping into the other backseat. 

“All good to go,” Nick announces. He pauses, sliding his aviators off his nose and up onto his cap. “Hey, where’d you get the candy from?”

“Ask Pratt,” Drew says. “He’s the candy baron.”

Pratt shoves the bag of snacks into the back, with a snort, and hooks his phone up to the car speakers. As Rook pulls out of Rye Aviation, Pratt scrolls through his phone, and starts playing a familiar piano piece. 

“ _Tonight I’m going to have myself a real good time… I feel ali— i— i— ive…_ ” Pratt sings along, and it doesn’t take long for Drew to join in. 

“ _And the world, I’ll turn it inside out, yeah… I’m floatin’ around in ecstasy…_ ”

Rook glances into the rearview mirror, and Nick Rye gives an exaggerated eyeroll before joining in the impromptu sing-along, a grin on his face. 

“ _So don’t! Stop! Me! Now!_ ”

Well, then. Guess there’s nothing for it, then. Rook opens his mouth, starts singing along loudly. He knows he’s no good, but that doesn’t matter because Nick isn’t either.

“ _Don’t! Stop! Me! ‘Cause I’m havin’ a good time, havin’ a good time…_ ” 

Rook presses on the gas a little harder, winds the window down so he can feel the breeze on his skin as the green forests of Holland Valley fly past them.

* * *

The weekend is a resounding success. Although Rook sucks at hunting (he makes too much noise, scares the animals off), the day they spend in the mountains above Missoula is a hell of a lot of fun— equal parts challenging and relaxing. Turns out that Pratt is the best shot of them all, to nobody’s surprise more than his own.

“We’re going to Armstrong’s range when we get back,” Rook announces, slinging his arm around Pratt’s shoulder. “You have to teach me how you did that.”

“I just aimed and shot,” Pratt replies, pushing Rook’s arm away with a laugh. “Can’t teach you that, old man.”

“Hey! I barely got three years on you,” Rook protests, and Nick Rye straight-up cackles, slapping Rook on the back. 

The bar crawl is, surprisingly, a lot of fun. Rook isn’t lucky enough to score a Grindr hook-up, but the bar they go to has a really hot bartender, which is almost as good. And, for once, Rook’s not the only one abstaining from alcohol— turns out Chris doesn’t drink either. 

“I’m a Methodist,” he explains. 

Rook can’t exactly reply with the truth— “my family has a history of alcoholism and I decided to quit while I was very, _very_ narrowly ahead”— ‘cause that would just kill the mood. 

“I just hate the taste,” he says, with a shrug. "So gross, makes me sick."

“I hear you. Just glad I’m not the only one not drinking,” Chris says, and while the others are playing some kind of drinking game, they end up playing a wicked game of Bullshit with a slightly-sticky pack of cards, courtesy of Hot Bartender.

Rook wins, twice, before Chris folds gracefully. 

“Should’ve known better than to play against a police officer,” Rook chides, and Chris snorts. 

“Guess I should’ve,” he replies. 

When it’s closing time, Rook’s grateful that the hotel is within walking distance of the bar. Drew can barely stagger under his own power, Chris supporting his weight as Rook helps drag Richards along. Nick, despite drinking more than anybody else, is cheerfully coherent, barely stumbling at all. Which is a good thing because Pratt is a mess. He’s not so drunk as to need to be half-carried back to the room, but he’s definitely going to suffer in the morning. He’s following the group like a particularly clumsy duckling. Rook thankfully doesn’t need to keep turning around to make sure he’s okay, because Pratt can’t seem to keep his mouth shut for more than three and a half seconds, a slurred, slightly hoarse, stream-of-thought.

“Burke is such an asshole,” Pratt moans. “I told you, right? I told you that he was an asshole, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you told us already,” Jenkins says. 

“Rook can testify,” Pratt continues, as though Jenkins didn’t say anything. “That guy’s such a dick. He’s always trying to blame shit on me, never lets me have any fun. And Whitehorse doesn’t give a shit.”

“Whitehorse is busy,” Rook says, for the fourth time in twenty minutes. “He hasn’t even had time to go see his girlfriend.”

“Whitehorse has a _girlfriend_?” Pratt asks. He pauses for a full five seconds, the longest quiet period he’s had all evening. 

“Nancy set him up,” Rook replies, and steps up onto the porch that leads to the hotel entrance. Stevens opens the door for them, swaying only slightly. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Stevens mutters. 

Rook ends up handing Richards off to Stevens while they’re in the lobby, since they’re sharing a room, and Chris and Jenkins go with Nick and Drew, to make sure they get to their room safely. Which leaves Rook to get Pratt back to theirs. 

“Nancy never sets me up,” Pratt says, swaying slightly, and he looks deeply distressed. “Hey. Hey, Rook. Why’s she never set me up? Is it my face?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” Rook says, and steers Pratt down the hall that leads to their room. He searches his pocket for his wallet, containing his keycard, and pauses when he doesn't feel anything else in his pocket. “Shit.”

“What?"

“I think I lost my phone,” Rook says. He’s got his wallet and his truck keys, but that's all. 

Damn it, he _needs_ his phone. Did he leave it in the bar? Maybe it fell out of his pocket during the journey back? 

“Oh, I got it,” Pratt suddenly says, producing Rook’s cell, nearly dropping it on the floor. Rook takes it, and Pratt continues talking. “Yeah. Stevens dared me to pick-pocket someone. I forgot to give it back. Sorry. No hard feelings, right?”

“Don’t do that to me again. I need my phone," Rook says, annoyed. 

“Yeah, yeah, no problem,” Pratt nods, vigorously. “I completely get it. You’re a real popular guy, aren't you? You got six messages from someone called Grindr. And Mah-man called twice.”

Rook’s heart stops for a moment when he opens the door, and Pratt stumbles in, flopping down onto his bed immediately. He starts snoring a few minutes late. 

It’s probably fine, Rook thinks. He probably won’t even remember the word 'Grindr' in the morning. Maman calling is a much bigger concern, though. He'll have to call first thing.

Despite being exhausted from all the hiking and hunting and hours spent out with the others, Rook ends up staring at the ceiling for a long time, until the orange of the streetlights outside segue into the orange of the pre-dawn.


	11. Chapter 11

Sunday is a slow, sluggish day. When Rook cracks his eyes open, at some point past midday, Pratt’s sitting on his bed, looking like the living dead. He’s got a half-empty water bottle clutched to his chest, and a bottle of Advil on the bedside cabinet. 

“Morning,” Rook croaks, and Pratt makes some kind of strangled, pained noise in reply, and slowly sinks back down into his sheets. It’s not surprising, considering how drunk he’d gotten.

Rook brushes his teeth, dresses in his comfortable khaki cargo pants and a soft flannel shirt before grabbing breakfast at the hotel restaurant. It’s past twelve, but they’ve got an all-day breakfast going here, and the waitress agrees to let him take a plate of plain toast back up to the room for Pratt, even though it's against their usual policy. 

Rook calls Maman before he heads back to the room— he nods to the waitress and steps out front, lets the cool air refresh him a little. 

“Matthieu?” Maman asks, picking up after three rings. Surprise curls around each word, like her soft accent. “Oh, chouchou, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” Rook says. “You called twice yesterday. Is everybody okay?”

“Oh… yes, I did. There’s no need to worry, my sweet. I just had a thought, that’s all.”

“What is it?”

“I know it’s early, but I was thinking about room arrangements, since Madeline and her family are staying for Thanksgiving this year. Will you be bringing anybody?” Maman asks, and, hesitantly, she continues. “Any… friends?”

Four years ago, she would never have asked, an unspoken rule that while Madeline’s husband and Melanie’s various boyfriends are welcome, Melanie’s occasional girlfriends and Matthew’s significant others are not. An awkward phone call like this is an improvement. Maybe in another four years, she’ll be able to use the word ‘boyfriend’ without looking like she’s about to cry. 

“No, I’m not,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What?” Maman asks, and she sounds surprised. “But last year, you said…”

Last year, he’d been clinging onto the last vestiges of hope that things with Luke might work out. And for a full two weeks they had, and then Luke had announced that he was leaving because he found someone better. His words, not Rook's.

“We broke up,” Rook says.

“Oh…” There’s silence for a moment, and then Maman starts speaking again. “Mon petit ange… you know you’re too good for those types, don’t you? Perhaps you should—“

“If you suggest I find a girlfriend, I’m not coming home at all,” Rook snaps, and he regrets raising his voice the moment the words leave his mouth. He wants to apologise, to take it back immediately. But Maman is quiet, in the way that usually suggests that he’s hit the nail on the head, and so he doesn't. Can't. Not when it's his identity that's being so easily dismissed.

“I’m sure you’ll find somebody, mon mignon,” Maman says, after a long moment. “You’ll tell me if you change your mind, won’t you?”

“I will,” Rook says. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask?”

“No, that was it,” Maman says. She sighs. “It’s been so long since we last spoke…”

There’s a reason for that. Although Rook adored his mother— he still does, even now, even after everything— and even though things are better than they used to be, there’s a gulf between them that wasn’t there before.

“I guess so,” Rook replies, and there’s a long silence that neither of them quite know how to break. He holds the phone to his ear, listens to the sound of his mother’s breathing. 

Maman doesn’t say anything. She used to be a master at drawing out conversations, always full of questions to ask, pestering her children and husband for details on the minute goings-on of their lives. Always caring about the answers, no matter how small or insignificant. Maybe it’s partly Rook’s fault, for not answering well enough after he got back in touch. For not making more of an effort back to her. Or maybe it’s because she now knows that she won’t like Rook’s answers. 

“I don’t really have time to talk now, Maman,” Rook says, after a few strained minutes. “You have my landline?”

“Oh, yes, Madeline gave it to me—"

“Great, then I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

Rook hangs up. He knows it’s cold. Madeline’s scolded him about it before. It’s just that there’s something… there’s something difficult about talking to Maman nowadays. 

Years ago, he’d spend hours sitting with her on the couch, watching her create beautiful images with a needle and thread, or mending something that had been torn. And while she worked, while she taught him, her explanations would be interspersed with easy, gentle conversation. How was your day? How are you feeling? A sweet, joyful laugh whenever he managed to pronounce a French word correctly— rarely though it was. A cup of hot cocoa sitting on the coffee table as afternoon turned to evening and then to night. 

Rook hasn’t drunk hot cocoa in a long time. Hasn’t touched a sewing needle in years, either. He shoves his phone back in his pocket, glances up at the dazzling blue sky. Maybe that should change, but it won’t be happening today.

Pratt’s loudly retching in the bathroom when Rook gets back. He places the tray of dry toast and a cup of ginger-honey tea, courtesy of the waitress, on the bedside cabinet, and wonders how much worse Drew and Richards are. Does Nick Rye even have a hangover? Rook's not a betting man, but he'd be willing to put money on 'no'.

Pratt eventually returns, crawls back into his nest. He’s virtually invisible, having stolen all the other blankets in the room, including the throw on the armchair. Rook snaps a picture of the Pratt blanket burrito, sends it first to Hudson, then to Melanie. 

It’s a long, quiet day, mostly spent watching shitty Sunday afternoon TV on mute, with subtitles, while Pratt slowly reconstitutes himself into a human being again. 

Monday dawns with unseasonably dim and overcast skies, and a strong wind coming from the east. 

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” Rook says, spearing another piece of bacon and pancake.

“Glad I’m not driving,” Nick says. “Awful flyin’ weather, too, that wind is somethin’ else…”

It does rain on the way back to Hope County, and it rains heavily. The storm doesn’t last long: they’ve ridden through the worst of it before they turn off the I-15, headed southwest, and it’s stopped completely by the time they emerge from the tunnel leading into Holland Valley, the skies once more blue and bright, just a couple clouds lingering. 

The colours seem brighter, the green and the gold of Holland Valley’s endless fields even more vibrant. The rain leaves a freshness in the air. 

It doesn’t take long to drop the others off. Pratt’s home isn’t far from Rye Aviation, and eventually Rook parks outside his home in Fall’s End, pulling Drew into a one-armed hug.

“It was a great weekend,” he says. “Thanks for inviting me. And I hope your wedding goes well.”

Drew chuckles. 

“No problem, I oughta thank you for coming,” Drew says, and he digs in his jacket pocket for a moment, producing an envelope. He gives it to Rook. “It’s a little late, but you’re welcome to come to the reception if you like. It’s going to be up at her uncle’s place in the Henbane— he runs a little fancy-ass bar for the tourists up there, you know? Lots of dancing, lots of cake.”

“Thanks,” Rook says, and Drew grins, heads on his way home to the house he’s sharing (for another couple weeks) with his family, tucked behind the Spread Eagle. Rook shoves the envelope into his jacket, grabbing his bags out the back of the truck.

Cake, huh? He’s sold. Whitehorse is sure to let him have the evening off if he asks really nicely.

“Let me know if you’re bringing a plus one!” Drew hollers, before he turns the corner, vanishing from sight. Rook rolls his eyes, heading inside. 

Monday ends with a visit to John. He’s the same as he always is, all tightly-wound energy, unable to sit still for a moment, all over Rook the moment he’s through the front door.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” Rook asks, as John slides his hands under Rook’s shirt, caressing the warm skin beneath. 

“You,” John replies, without breaking eye contact. 

“I can tell,” Rook says. “Got to admit, I wasn’t going to come over tonight.”

John frowns, and his hands still. 

“Why’s that?”

“I’m exhausted,” Rook explains. “I drove pretty much all afternoon. Didn’t even have time to eat before I came over.”

“You should’ve said,” John says, and he glances back toward the kitchen. “I think I have some of Jacob's leftover lasagne. It's vegan, but…”

“I’m hungry for something else,” Rook replies, because while the thought of sitting to eat with John before getting down to business is awfully tempting, it also makes him deeply uncomfortable. It’s blurring the lines of their relationship too much. He’ll get too attached again. End up exactly the same as last time, crying like a goddamn child for hours on end, wondering why he’s not enough.Exactly the opposite of what he wants from Hope County. 

“Something else, huh?” John quirks an eyebrow, quick on the uptake.

“Yeah, that’s right. How about you do the hard work tonight? Put those legs of yours to good use,” Rook suggests. “I’ll suck you off after.” 

John rolls his eyes, and he laughs. 

“How could I ever turn down such a generous offer?” he asks. “Good thing I haven’t been skipping leg day.” 

John drags Rook upstairs quick as always, knows how to put on a show. When he directs his erratic energy into something as simple as folding his shirt before carefully draping it across an armchair, letting his eyes flick up-and-down Rook, it’s enough to make Rook’s heartbeat race. He pushes Rook onto the bed, crawling over him to reach the drawer with the lube and the condoms, and then he gets to work.

When John finally sinks down, hot and slick and tight and perfect, he does so in increments— takes the first inch or two, rocking back up, then the next, until he’s finally fully seated, eyes never leaving Rook’s. 

“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” Rook says, brushing some of the hair that’s fallen in front of John’s face away. 

“Might get tired of doing it,” John says. “Variety is the spice of life, isn’t that what they say?”

“You know what I mean,” Rook replies, and he brings his hand down, trailing down John’s throat, his collarbone, scratching briefly at his nipple (and he can feel when John shudders). Rook’s hand glides down the firm planes of John’s stomach, then around to the satisfying swell of his ass, and he squeezes. 

“You’re impatient, aren’t you?” John’s mouth twitches into a languid, teasing smile. “Whatever happened to ‘John, you do all the work’?” 

“I’ll fall asleep right here if you don’t get moving,” Rook replies, and John lets out a loud, mock-irritated sigh before lifting himself, grinding back down quickly. Relatively shallow movements, but they’re fast-paced.

Rook lets himself lean back, enjoying the slow build of pleasure, the truly awesome sight of John moving against him, his hands braced on Rook’s shoulders, his eyes fixed on Rook’s. The minute changes in his facial expressions (a slight twitching of his eyebrow, a little more flushing), then the major ones (eyes squeezing shut, mouth falling open on a particularly vigorous thrust), and the delicious sounds he’s making, heavy breaths and desperate groans escaping his beautiful mouth. 

Rook bites his lip, nearly leans forward to catch John’s cries in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. He doesn’t, pulls himself back to reality, grasps the sheets tightly to occupy his hands, to ground him. Fights the urge to thrust up to meet John’s movements, to flip them over and fuck John senseless.

“I’m…” Rook swallows, sucks in a shaky breath. “John, I’m gonna—“

“Do it,” John whispers, leaning forward, pupils blown wide open. “I want to see you.”

Rook comes, white-knuckled, with John’s hands sliding up to cradle his face, something soft and warm against his lips. When he’s able to think again, John’s already lying in the sheets next to him, rolling a decidedly pink-looking condom over his dick. 

“Dessert already?” Rook asks. 

“You seemed to like the chocolate, so I figured I’d get strawberry this time,” John replies, with a wink. 

“I’m warning you now, you bring food into this bed and I’m just going to eat it all,” Rook says. Luke had tried that once, and it had ended with Rook drinking a bottle of chocolate syrup, Luke bitching about not getting any head.

“That’s the point,” John says, waggling his eyebrows in a way that suggests he doesn’t entirely understand Rook’s meaning. Oh, well. He’ll learn. 

It’s easier to swallow John down now than it was when they first started… whatever this is. Rook’s not sure if that’s the artificial candy-strawberry flavour making him salivate or something, or if it’s the extra practice. Could be the second— he hasn’t had this much regular sex in a pretty long time. 

John comes quickly, crying out loudly as he does. Clean-up is quick, basic. John’s taken to keeping a couple towels on the bedside cabinet on nights like these, a little trash can within arm’s reach. John throws the soiled towel at the laundry hamper and misses, falling short by a good metre. He groans, throws his forearm over his eyes, and does little else. His other hand curls loosely against Rook’s, feeling oddly cool against Rook’s skin. 

Rook takes a couple minutes to catch his breath, let his mind wander. His conversation with Maman the other day keeps playing in his head. He can’t help but wonder what Maman would think of John. He’s exactly the kind of man she’s always ushered Madeline and Melanie toward, so presumably she wouldn’t hate him. Maybe showing up to Thanksgiving with a handsome Southern lawyer on his arm would help counteract Maman's obviously-conflicted feelings. He doesn't know. It’s easier to consider Nínna’s thoughts on the matter— “if you’re happy, I’m happy,” he’d said softly, his arms wrapped protectively around his son. 

Whatever.

It doesn’t matter, Rook thinks, and he forces himself up, starts re-dressing. John’s bed is comfortable and his hand is warm, but Rook knows that he doesn’t belong here. This is just a distraction, until John finds a pretty girl to bear his children and play the part of a good sister-in-law to his beloved brothers. That’s all it’s ever been. 

“You don’t always have to leave,” John says, arm still flung over his face, exactly the same position he’d landed in when he rolled off Rook. “I don’t care if you stay the night.”

“You just want someone to make breakfast for you,” Rook replies, and what little he can see of John’s face breaks out into a smile. 

“Okay, you got me,” John snorts. “That bacon was divine, just saying.”

“That’s the peak of my culinary skills,” Rook replies. He finishes buttoning his jeans, starts pulling his boots back on. 

“And what a peak it was…” John sighs, happily. “Come by again soon.”

“I will,” Rook promises. This might be just a distraction, but it’s the best he’s had in a long time. “See you round, John.”

“See y—“ 

The door closes behind Rook, cutting off John’s farewell. 


	12. Chapter 12

Thursday is a pretty boring day, or at least it is until Rook walks into the Sheriff’s Department. 

“Oh, Rook!” Nancy says, looking delighted as he walks past the front desk. “Just the man I was looking for. Come here, will you?”

“You all right?” Rook asks. 

“Oh, I’m fine,” Nancy says, pressing a piece of paper into Rook’s hand. “And you’ll be fine too, I wager.”

“What?”

“Your date,” Nancy says, closing Rook’s hand around the paper— he can make out a name and a phone number written in excessively looped cursive. He shoves it in his pocket— he’ll read it later. “Don’t worry, I already cleared it with Whitehorse. You’re meeting at Aubrey’s at eight next Friday.”

That’s the evening he’d planned to spend at John’s. Damn it. He didn’t think she’d actually _find_ someone.

“He’s so handsome, you’re going to love him! Oh, he’s such a sweetheart— Miss Mable only has nice things to say about him, and you know what she’s like, don’t you? I can tell already, the two of you are going to get on like a house on fire. And I spoke to Aubrey— he’s got something really special planned for the two of you. A good special, I promise— I told him how important it was that everything was just right…” Nancy trails off for a moment. “Oh, but I didn’t tell him who the two of you were, or anything, just that I’m sending a couple gentlemen over and that he’d better make it perfect for you both, Lord knows the two of you deserve it…”

It’s amazing that she can talk so much, Rook thinks. It’s amazing that she’d put so much time and commitment into planning this. It’s… well, it’s nice.

“Thank you, Nancy,” Rook says, not having the heart to turn her down after all the effort she’s gone to.

“The best way to thank me is to dress up real nice and have yourself a good time, killer be damned,” Nancy replies. “Those bastards want us to be afraid, but we don’t scare so easy, do we, Rook?”

“No, ma’am, we don’t,” Rook replies. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, hon,” Nancy waves him off.

He’ll have to cancel his meeting with John. Still, there are worse things to do than spend an evening out— Lord knows he doesn’t get out much, spends too much time sitting with his curtains drawn, watching reruns of _Chopped!_ and last year's _Crufts_. 

The office is pretty much the same as it always is, except that Pratt looks like shit. He’s pale, with puffy, red-rimmed eyes, dark circles underneath like he hasn’t slept at all. Rook knows that look— used to see it in the mirror all too often. Something’s happened, that’s for sure. His hands are fucking trembling. 

“You okay?” Rook asks. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Prat replies, automatically. Which is obviously a lie, but they’re not close enough yet that Rook can press him on this.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, don’t sweat it,” Pratt mutters, looking decidedly uncomfortable. His shoulders are hunched, eyes averted. Definitely doesn’t want to talk. 

“Okay,” Rook says. He’ll leave it, at least for now. “Any luck with the dump sites?”

“Yes and no,” Pratt says. “I found a couple likely spots, but no evidence so far. Trouble is, Hope County is a hell of a lot bigger than people realise.”

Pratt pulls a folded map out of his pocket, starts to unfold it. It’s been heavily annotated with notes on the water flow and direction of the rivers, different colours denoting where Pratt has searched and where he has yet to look. 

“Haven’t done the area here, near the Lamb of God,” Pratt says. “Gonna need permits for that. Old Father Brian won’t be a problem, but that John Seed might be. He’s just an asshole like that.”

“I’ll ask John,” Rook says. “He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pratt scoffs. “I forgot you two were friends. You seriously have those movie nights?”

“Yeah, we do,” Rook says. “He’s actually pretty cool.”

“More like actually a creep,” Pratt mutters. “Whatever. You do you. Just saying, I bet a movie night with me and the guys would be a hell of a lot more fun than with Douchebag Seed.”

Rook snickers at that. 

“You keep telling yourself that,” he says. And then, because he forgot to ask Drew on Monday, “hey— do you know who’s going to the Fairgrave wedding reception? Drew gave me an invite after we dropped you home the other day.”

“Uh…. I dunno,” Pratt mutters, rubbing his face. “I guess pretty much everybody in the county. It’d be easier to name the people who aren’t going. Seeds aren’t going— they don’t like fun. That… what’s his name? Dude on the island? Dutch? He doesn’t leave his bunker. Um. Tweak Kirby doesn’t show up for shit, ‘cause he’s paranoid. Drew invited Zip, but I don’t think he’ll show. He doesn’t do much these days. Would be awesome if he did show, though, ‘cause the last time he came to a party he ranted for three hours about... like, _all_ the conspiracy theories. It was hilarious. But... I think that pretty much everybody else is going.”

Sounds like a community event more than a private celebration. Rook really ought to show his face. Come along with a nice card and a gift certificate, spend a couple hours eating cake and drinking sparkling grape juice with his friends. There are worse ways to spend an August evening. 

“You’re coming, right?” Pratt asks, after a moment. “‘Cause if you don’t show, I’m going to have to hang out with Nancy and Hudson all night, and all they’re going to do is roast the shit out of me.”

“Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?” Rook asks. “I can’t miss out on a chance to see both of them tear you apart.”

Pratt snorts, smacks Rook on the shoulder. 

“You’re such an asshole,” Pratt shakes his head. 

“I learnt from the best,” Rook replies. 

Burke doesn’t show up that night. Neither does Hudson, but that makes sense 'cause it's her scheduled day off. Whitehorse leaves his office around seven, about the same time Pratt’s getting ready to go home. Todd’s supposed to be in around ten. 

“You okay, kid?” Whitehorse asks, concernedly. 

“Yeah, I’m all better,” Pratt replies. “See you tomorrow, sir.”

Once Pratt is out of earshot, Rook looks up at Whitehorse.

“Something happen to him?”

“Burke,” Whitehorse replies, and… yeah. That makes sense. Whitehorse doesn’t elaborate, so Rook doesn’t ask. 

Whitehorse doesn’t linger long. Between Whitehorse’s exhaustion and Rook’s general sleeplessness, they barely manage a conversation: how are you, fine, how was the hunting trip, great, any case updates, of course not, goodnight. 

It’s yet another boring night.

The most exciting thing that happens is that Sharky Boshaw calls and asks if, hypothetically, it would be illegal to fuck one's aunt-by-marriage.

(The answer is 'probably not, I guess, but also, sir, you're aware that Adelaide has a boyfriend, right?')

* * *

 

 

There’s another body discovered on Tuesday. It washes up further north of the others, at the docks on the southwestern edge of the Whitetails. Got caught under one of the jetties, found by the owner himself that morning.

By the time Rook gets in, late afternoon as always, the corpse has already been carted off to the coroner. Whitehorse is sticking photographs up on the case-board in the centre of the office.

“Got another one, Rook,” Whitehorse says, and he sounds exhausted. “Better come take a look.”

Rook does, and Whitehorse rambles about the details of the discovery as Rook slides past desks and cabinets and chairs. Corpse found approximately four-thirty AM, owner had been readying a boat to fetch lumber from the Mill. Just like the others, the victim was naked, severe injuries inflicted at some point after death (caused by blunt force trauma). Something had been inserted into the poor fucker’s forearms and back, but pulled out before the dumping. Whitehorse starts speculating on why that is, but Rook doesn’t listen. Can’t listen, because his heart stopped the moment he recognised the face, mangled though it is, in the photograph in Whitehorse’s hand.

It’s Luke. His delicate nose, that sharp jawline, the floppy flaxen hair that always used to fall in his eyes…

“Can I...?” Rook croaks, gesturing at the photograph, nausea rising in his throat.

“Sure,” Whitehorse says, passing it over, and Rook takes it with trembling hands. “You okay, Rook? Looking a little pale there.”

“I’m fine,” Rook replies, and he immediately grimaces at how not-fine he sounds. “Just— it looks like someone I used to know.”

It isn’t Luke, he can see that now. The bridge of the nose is too high, the length a little too long. The chin isn’t pronounced enough, the hair an artificial gold-yellow. Still, that doesn’t quell his nausea immediately. His heart still beats too fast. His hands feel clammy, fear slowly dissipating in the pit of his stomach.

“Friend of yours?” Whitehorse asks, concernedly. 

Rook shakes his head. 

“Ex,” he says. It’s good that the corpse isn’t Luke. Things had been bad near the end, but even Luke, with his constant lying and his endless shit, doesn’t deserve to be killed and cut up and thrown in a river. Nobody does. 

“I see,” Whitehorse says, and Rook blinks. Mentally rewinds the last ten seconds of conversation.

Shit. 

“Is it him?” Whitehorse continues, not looking particularly perturbed by Rook’s inadvertent confession. 

“No,” Rook says. “I… I was mistaken. It isn’t him.”

“I’m glad,” Whitehorse says. “Still, this guy was someone else’s ex. Someone else’s son, brother, maybe even a father.” He pauses, looks up at Rook, fixing him with that calm, though determined gaze. “We’re going to catch the bastard that did this. Sooner rather than later.”

“We will,” Rook agrees, even though he doesn’t feel it. He pushes the photo back into Whitehorse’s hand.

“First thing’s first,” Whitehorse says, pinning the photo to the board. “We gotta nip this in the bud. Prevent any more deaths. Pastor Seed’s been unwilling to start forcing extra security measures, but it looks like we don’t have a choice. Starting Monday, we’re going to start running security for the Peggies. I’ll work out the details with Joseph over the weekend.”

“Sounds good to me, sir,” Rook says. 

“Might well backfire on us,” Whitehorse sighs. “Psychopath like this? He’ll start targeting others. We’ll probably have to bring Danny back in for a while. Get the part-timers doing full-time. Budget’s going to be a mess, but Virgil can’t complain if we’re saving lives.”

“We’ll be careful,” Rook says. “Maybe we should advise the locals to keep to a curfew?”

“Nobody’s going to listen out here,” Whitehorse replies. “Still… it can’t hurt, a thing like that. I’ll tell Virgil. Get the pastors to spread the word.” 

Whitehorse claps Rook on the shoulder. 

“Good thinking,” he says. “And thank you.”

“For what, sir?” Rook asks. 

“Trusting me,” Whitehorse says, a small smile playing at his mouth. “Take pride in who you are, Rook. Sometimes that’s all you need.”

Rook blinks, and, after a moment, he smiles back. Hadn’t expected that response— at best, maybe a neutral ‘huh’, or a careful non-response. Definitely not understanding or encouragement.

“I’ll try, sir.”

Whitehorse nods and takes his leave, retreating into his office. 

Rook settles in: grabs his customary coffee, checks his emails and starts working on his never-ending reports. Flicks on the station radio, turns it to Wheaty’s frequency, and enjoys his classic rock selection, interspersed with relaxing banter. The minutes tick by slowly, as they always do.

Burke shows up at seven, his face like thunder. He strides into the office, makes a beeline for Rook’s desk. 

“Rook,” Burke says, forgoing his usual greeting.

“You okay, sir?”

“Come with me. I need your help.”

Shit, that sounds serious. Rook stands quickly, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, follows Burke out of the office and past Nancy and into the parking lot. Burke immediately makes for the nearest cruiser, gets in the driver’s seat. 

“Where are we going, sir?”

“You’ll see when we get there,” Burke says, and if that’s not ominous, Rook doesn’t know what is. Burke pulls out of the parking lot, tyres squealing on the asphalt, and the fields surrounding Fall’s End fly past alarmingly quickly. Burke presses even harder on the gas, flicks the cruiser lights on as they take a sharp right.

The silence in the cruiser is stifling. 

“When we get there, I need you to do _exactly_ what I say, no questions,” Burke says. “You understand that? No hesitations, no fucking questions, nothing at all except pure _obedience_. People’s _lives_ are at stake, here, and your Sheriff is either too chicken-shit or too corrupt to do anything about it. So we're going to. Nothing is going to stop us getting this killer behind bars, you get that?”

“Yes, sir,” Rook says, mostly because he has no idea what else he can actually say. He’s never seen Burke like this, so— so angry, so intense. It would be a lot less frightening if Burke weren't driving like a fucking  _maniac_. 

Burke takes them past Gardenview and Rae-Rae’s, past Silver Lake. Over the bridge to the Henbane. Then north, the bridge to Holmes Island.  Rook’s got a bad feeling about this. A really bad feeling. He opens his mouth, but the look on Burke’s face is nothing short of utter fury, his knuckles white against the black leather of the steering wheel. So Rook closes his mouth, stomach twisting itself into knots.

Burke takes a sharp left, so sharp Rook hits his head on the passenger window.

“Jesus!” 

“Suck it up,” Burke replies, and he brings the cruiser to a jerky stop in the middle of the parking lot. He gets out almost as soon as the car stops moving, cutting off the engine. 

“Sir, are you sure—“ Rook starts, and Burke cuts him off.

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure,” he snaps. “You remember what you agreed, right? No fucking questions. Don’t make me write up your whole fucking department for obstructing justice. You've got a promising career ahead of you, if you do the right thing.”

Burke doesn’t wait for a repsonse, simply strides on ahead until he reaches the chapel. He taps his watch. 

“Sung eucharist in the morning,” Burke says, as though that explains _anything_. Then he flings the doors open, strides into the dimly-lit church. It’s empty, save for one figure: Joseph Seed, carefully placing hymn-books on each pew. 

“Joseph Seed!” Burke barks. “You are under arrest on suspicion of first-degree murder!”

Joseph looks at Burke, brow creased in confusion, and then at Rook as they approach. Rook should say something— try to warn Burke off arresting someone he’s sure is an innocent man.

“Excuse me?” Seed asks. “Are— are you serious?”

Burke doesn’t answer, merely nods at Rook. 

“Cuff him,” Burke says. “ _Now_.”


	13. Chapter 13

The drive back to Fall’s End is quiet. Rook drives quickly, but carefully. He feels sick. Knows his clammy hands are trembling on the steering wheel, but he can hardly feel them now the adrenaline is fading.

Burke is silent. He sits with his arms crossed, leaning back in the passenger seat. The energy and anger from earlier is gone. 

Rook glances in the rearview mirror before he takes the turning back to Fall’s End. Joseph meets his eyes, a steady blue gaze. Although the good pastor had been shocked earlier, that shock had quickly been replaced by a quiet resolve. Not like steel, sharp and rigid, but more like… more like a mountain. Immovable. Simply there, standing tall. He hadn’t argued any further, hadn’t spoken at all, except to say four words.

“I’ll pray for you.”

Rook looks away first, focuses his full attention on the empty roads. 

There’s nobody around when Rook pulls into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot, thank God. He’s not sure he’d be able to stomach hauling Joseph in with an audience. 

“Sir?” Nancy asks, when Rook leads Joseph in. “Rook? Pastor? What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned about,” Burke snaps. “Is Whitehorse here?”

“No, he went home for the night, maybe twenty minutes ago,” Nancy replies. “Sir, what are you doing with Pastor Seed?”

Burke doesn’t respond, just pushes Joseph into the office. 

“Interview room,” Burke orders, and… well, that’s as good a place as any to get Joseph processed, so Rook obeys. Leads Joseph into the room, starts up the tape recorder.

Burke ends up sitting opposite Joseph, Rook next to him, quietly filling out the processing forms. Joseph doesn’t argue, simply gives him the information Rook needs when he asks for it. Doesn’t protest anything, not even the fingerprinting, simply fixes both Burke and Rook with that tranquil gaze.

“I’m supposed to have a lawyer,” Joseph says, once Rook signs and dates the form. “And I want my phone call.”

“You’ll get it soon enough,” Burke replies. “I want to ask you something first.”

“I understand, but I will not answer you until my lawyer is present,” Joseph says. Calm. Clear. Confident. 

“Why’d you do it?” Burke asks, and Joseph does not answer. Instead, he clasps his hands together, bows his head, and closes his eyes. Praying. Burke presses on, regardless. “Why’d you do it? You were supposed to help those people."

Joseph continues to silently pray, giving no indication he’s even heard the question. John can probably get here in ten minutes, Rook thinks.

Rook gets up, quietly, papers in hand. He leaves the interview room, puts the papers on his desk to file away later. Nips into the bathroom real quick, takes a leak before he heads to the kitchenette to grab more coffee. He dials John as he pours a new cup— it’s bitter, almost foul this time of night. 

“Good evening, Deputy,” John purrs. “I must say, I wasn’t expecting you to call _tonight_. I thought you were working.”

“I _am_ working. You need to come to the station, right now,” Rook replies, getting straight to business. “It’s Joseph. He’s in the interview room. Burke arrested him on suspicion of murder— the serial killer case. Just come straight in when you get here.”

“Shit,” John breathes. Clears his throat. “Five minutes.”

Rook hangs up, puts the drip jug back in place. Then he heads back to the room, pausing at his desk to chew a couple antiacids ‘cause he’s still nauseous, stomach still twisted into knots.

Burke was the one to cuff Joseph, not Rook. He hasn’t done anything wrong, per se, but… Rook should’ve tried harder to stop him. And now Burke is mad. Rook wasn’t supposed to hesitate, wasn’t supposed to question, but he did. 

(“For fuck’s sake,” Burke had snapped, yanking the cuffs off Rook’s belt himself. “Am I gonna have to do everything myself around here?”)

Earlier, Burke had said that Rook had a promising career ‘if he made the right choice’. Rook doesn’t know exactly how much influence a federal agent has over his career, and he doesn’t want to find out. While he’s pretty sure that federal law enforcement and state law enforcement are almost entirely separated, he’s not sure enough to stake his job and his future career on it. Burke’s already pissed off at Whitehorse’s lack of action, already mad over Pratt’s shitty jokes, endlessly frustrated at being stuck in a small, rural town like this for so damned long. 

Rook’s sure he’d have fucked something up no matter what he chose to do at the church— as it is, his personal morals are (somewhat) intact, but his career prospects are looking a little grim. And while Joseph hasn’t shown any ill-will yet, that doesn’t mean a damned thing. He’s not in a position to speak openly.

Rook heads back to the interview room, where Burke is still pressing Joseph, to no avail.

“Nothing to say?” Burke asks. “Not even going to defend yourself?”

Joseph continues to pray, resolutely ignoring Burke. Rook sinks into his chair, takes a sip of his coffee. There’s silence for a moment. 

“You had plenty of opportunity,” Burke says. “Your motive, though… that’s what I’m not sure about. Were you sick of seeing them fall into the same old habits? The drugs and the alcohol and the immoral behaviour? It must have made you so _mad_.”

Joseph’s eyes flick up, and he glares at Burke, but doesn’t say anything. 

Maybe he’s thinking about John- he used to be an addict, even if he doesn’t drink nowadays. (Rook can’t be sure, not without openly discussing it with John, but he’s pretty sure that his vice was cocaine. Common drug for high achievers in stressful, upper-middle-class careers. Or it might have been alcohol. Maybe both.) John’s said that his brothers both know about his bisexuality, implied that Joseph dislikes it, or maybe considers it sinful. 

“I bet that’s what made you snap. For so long, you’ve been trying to help these people, and they’re just throwing it all away, for what? Temporary pleasure? Is that what it is? You’re killing them to save their souls? What kind of hypocrite are you?”

Joseph’s lip curls and he opens his mouth to speak, but thankfully that’s the moment John opens the door, stepping through smoothly.

“Good evening, officers,” John says, a confident smile on his lips. He’s dressed in a sharp blue suit, the only indication of his hurried arrival being his un-gelled hair, tucked behind his ears in lieu of being slicked back.

“What are you doing here?” Burke asks. 

“Providing legal assistance to my dear client,” John replies, slipping into the seat next to Joseph. He directs his dazzling smile at Rook. “Thank you for informing me of the situation.”

Rook nods. Burke makes an angry noise.

“Now, I suppose we ought to get down to business,” John says, casually. He folds his hands on the table in front of him, idly drumming with his fingers. “What, precisely, are you charging Joseph with?”

“Murder,” Rook says, the first thing he’s said in this room all night. “First-degree.”

“Oh?” John raises an eyebrow. “That’s terribly serious. “I presume you’ve got evidence?”

Burke glares at John, and John chuckles. 

“Okay,” he says. “Then what about a motive? Why would a good, honest man like Pastor Seed murder the same people he’s been trying to save?”

Burke sits up, opens his mouth, and Rook doesn’t actually listen to what he says. Can’t. Not when John is here, his fancy cologne wafting through the room with each fluid, self-assured movement, each word flowing from his mouth an intelligently crafted masterpiece. 

Rook’s never seen John in full lawyer-mode before. He’s always eloquent and graceful, but somehow he’s even more so now he’s arguing with Burke, each movement mesmerising and deliberate. He speaks rapidly, but his tone is calm, his delivery confident. 

It’s _hot_. Rook almost wishes John would turn that piercing gaze on him, would order him to strip or suck his dick. _Almost_. 

Rook swallows, trying to will away the tightness in his jeans, to blink away the fantasy invading his thoughts. Pavlov. That’s what this is. He’s managed to condition himself into associating John with sex. Should’ve thought about that a little more. He forces himself to pay more attention to what’s actually happening.

“…Ergo,” John says, obviously finishing his argument. “You have no right to hold Pastor Seed, and you shall release him from custody immediately.”

Burke glowers at John, clearly displeased. But he doesn’t argue with him. 

“I understand,” Burke says. “Rook, cuffs.” 

Rook’s never been so glad to uncuff someone in his life. Joseph rubs his wrists. There are stark pink lines against his paper-white skin.

“Thank you,” Joseph murmurs. 

Rook doesn’t reply. Can’t reply. He doesn’t deserve thankfulness, not after failing to stop Joseph’s bogus arrest in the first place. 

“Just one last question, Pastor Seed,” Burke says, and Joseph glances up again. “You strangled her, right? How did it feel?” 

“What?” Joseph asks, blinking in confusion. 

“Your daughter,” Burke says. “How did it feel, crushing her tiny throat like that?”

Joseph stares at Burke, his blue eyes wide, an unreadable expression on his face. Surprise? Anger? Sorrow? All three? Rook’s not sure.

“She needed surgery after,” Burke continues. “Miracle she survived, honestly. Makes me wonder, though…that car accident… was it all planned? What on earth could make a man like you grow to hate your wife and your own daughter like that?"

A moment passes. Then two.

“It wasn’t like that,” Joseph says, and John yanks his brother upright. 

“No more questions,” John says, and then, under his breath, “shut _up_ , Joe.”

John takes Joseph by the elbow, gently steers him out of the door, closes it behind them with a gentle click. There’s nothing but silence in the room for a moment, before Burke flicks off the tape recorder and turns to Rook, arms crossed over his chest.

“Why’d you call his lawyer?” Burke asks. 

“He asked for it,” Rook replies, surprised that Burke would even ask that. 

“No, he didn’t,” Burke replies, his gaze cold and unrelenting. “He said that he wanted his phone call and that he wouldn’t talk to us until he had his lawyer present. One request and one statement of fact. You need to listen more carefully.”

“Even if he hadn’t asked, he’s got the right to a lawyer. I can’t just… not give him one. That’s _illegal_.”

Burke shakes his head, chuckles bitterly. 

“That’s illegal?” he asks, softly. “Then what is killing people, huh? Is that okay in your book?”

“Of course not, but—“ 

“It’s good that you care about due process,” Burke says, through gritted teeth. “But there’s a serial killer on the loose. We need to catch him and put him away so that nobody else gets hurt. The hell is that so hard for you yokels to understand?”

“It’s not Joseph,” Rook says. “And even if it were, we can’t make the charges stick— we’d have to release him anyway. We need evidence.”

Burke glowers at him, his jaw all right. Then he leaves, without another word.

* * *

Rook double-checks his reflection in his wing mirror. It’s a fruitless exercise— he’s done everything he can to look good. Shaved, combed his hair, flossed his teeth extra carefully. He knows he smells good— he showered thoroughly before he came (his asshole is clean enough to eat off, should his date be that way inclined), and he rolled on an extra layer of deodorant and splashed on a little cologne, gargled an extra thirty seconds with mouthwash before he left the house. He even went through the effort of ironing this evening’s green plaid, polished up his nicest pair of boots, picked out his most flattering jeans, a black pair that cling to his legs.

Rook doesn’t know what Doctor Charles Lindsay’s type is (at least, he thinks that’s the name Nancy scribbled, her writing is pretty hard to read), but he’s presenting the best version of himself possible. He flicks off the radio, mid-way through LeAnne Rimes’ soulful rendition of Can’t Fight the Moonlight. Takes one deep breath, then another two. Gets out of his truck, heads toward Aubrey’s entrance— a small deck covered in potted plants, a planter flung over the railing. It’s filled with… well, Rook doesn’t know shit about flowers, but there’s something small and white interspersed amongst the ivy. Pretty cute.There’s a discreet little rainbow-flag sticker in a window near the door, so discreet that Rook nearly misses it. Still, it helps his stomach unclench. At least it means that the staff won’t get antsy about his date being a man. 

Rook strides in. He doesn’t know a whole lot about interior design, but Aubrey’s looks like a classy place. There are nice, brown-leather booths along the walls, wooden tables with white cloths and fancy-looking chairs in the middle. Nice paintings of Hope County landscapes dotted along the walls, lace curtains lining the windows.

“Good evening!” the waitress calls. She’s a young woman, maybe college-aged, bustling over with a big smile. “Table for one?”

“Uh,” Rook says. “Nancy sent me. From the Sheriff’s Office. She made the reservation. I think I’m supposed to meet someone here.”

“Oh! The date, right?” the waitress asks, and at Rook’s hesitant nod, she leads him to a booth that’s just a little more secluded than the others, wedged in the corner of the restaurant. “I’m afraid that your suitor isn’t here yet, but he shouldn’t be long. Would you like a drink while you wait?”

“Just some water, please.”

“Coming right up!”

Rook entertains himself by snapping a photo of the booth, sending it to Melanie while he waits. Her reply is immediate: _You went outside? Willingly? Who are you and what did you do to my brother?_

_Very funny_ , he replies.

_Awww,_ Melanie replies. _Also, not a joke. You’re a human-sized sloth._

Rook replies with a frowning emoji.

_ Whatever. How’s things? We haven’t spoken in a while. Guess you got a new bf? _

Rook isn’t sure what to write in reply. He can’t exactly tell her everything that’s happening at work— the tension between Burke and Whitehorse, the raging argument they’d purportedly had the morning after the arrest. How Hudson and Pratt are rarely at the station these days, in part because of Burke’s constant foul mood. How they’re no closer to finding the killer. Howgrateful John had been for Rook’s role that night, how he’d been so soft and tender the last time they had sex, worshipping Rook’s body with his fingers and his tongue.

(“Thank you for helping my brother,” John had said, afterward, his knuckles gently trailing along Rook’s cheek. “For calling me like you did.” 

Rook had turned his face away. He didn’t feel as though he’d helped. If anything, it had been his fault that Joseph had been arrested in the first place.)

_Things are fine,_ Rook replies. _Just a casual date._

He puts his phone away, eyes the other patrons. Most of them he vaguely recognises. There’s Drew and his fiancée, with what looks like her parents. Miss Jessop and a tall woman he’s not met before— he’s pretty sure she’s one of the county athletes, though. Seen her practicing with the local baseball team, the Cougars, in the field behind Fall’s End school. There’s a bigger field up in the Whitetails, too. Joseph Seed’s sitting with a woman with brown hair and brown eyes. Doesn’t seem to be paying attention to Rook, thank God. Kim and Nick Rye are at one of the tables in the middle— Kim’s stomach even more swollen than the last time Rook saw her. She’s… what, seven months now? 

Rook can’t help but wonder if the child will look more like Kim or like Nick. Rook’s willing to bet that Baby Rye will get Kim’s eyes and her hair, if nothing else. Rook inherited most of Nínna’s Native features— golden skin, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and straight, black hair. There’s a little of Maman in the shape of his mouth and nose, and the roundness of his eyes, but little else. His sisters had gotten a little more of Maman’s soft curls in their hair, Madeline’s eyes more hazel than black, and Melanie is pale, hardly able to tan. 

Rook almost doesn’t notice when the waitress brings his date to the table. He’s right— it is Charles Lindsay, hair neatly gelled, wearing a fashionably patterned shirt with a vest and tailored pants. Rook wonders if he’s maybe underdressed. 

“Here you are, sir!” the waitress chirps. “I’ll be back in a moment to take your drink orders!”

Lindsay sits down, practically vibrating with nervous energy. 

“Hi,” he says. “I, uh. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Wasn’t expecting you, either,” Rook replies, even though it's mostly a lie. “Nice surprise, though.”

“Oh, of course,” Lindsay laughs, flustered. “I just— I thought I was the one one, you know?”

“I figured the same,” Rook lies, because mentioning John’s sexuality is a clear violation of the rules they agreed upon. “Good to see I’m not, though.”

Small talk comes easy. Lindsay’s mom is Iranian, his dad Scottish. Grew up in Seattle, moved to Hope County after completing his studies for a simpler, rural life. Studying for another Master’s, specialising in a unique species of cougar found in Hope. Likes biology, chemistry and history. 

“I go to the geothermal park a lot,” Lindsay says. “I really like learning about prehistoric tribes and stuff. The way they lived all those millions of years ago.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Rook replies. It’s not his thing, but Lindsay’s enthusiasm is endearing.

Lindsay is intelligent, makes a lot of witty jokes that make Rook straight-up cackle. He’s really good company— surprisingly fun, for someone known for being meek and mild. He’s genuinely interested in hearing about Rook’s family, his history.

The thing is, Rook thinks, when he sticks his fork into his plate of alfredo, is that although Lindsay is fun and sweet and charming, they don’t quite… gel. There’s no spark between them. They don’t fit together the way Rook’s looking for. He’s enjoying the company, sure, but he doesn’t really want anything more than talking over food. They don’t actually have a whole lot in common, other than being the only semi-openly gay men in the county. 

“And you know what she said?” Lindsay asks, barely stifling a giggle. 

“What?” Rook leans forward, eager to hear the answer. 

“'Bring your girlfriend next time',” Lindsay wheezes. “I— we were holding _hands_. Right in front of her. I don’t— I even said the word ‘boyfriend’. Come on! Nobody’s that dumb, are they?”

“Some people are just oblivious,” Rook says, shaking his head. “Jesus. Thats a good one.”

By the time they leave, the sun’s set. Lindsay’s sweet enough to try to pay the whole bill, but Rook talks him down, and they end up splitting it equally. They tip heavily— the food was amazing and the waitress was lovely— and they end up standing under the streetlight that illuminates the parking lot. 

Lindsay smiles at Rook, the shy kind of smile that comes from someone not used to being the centre of attention. 

“I had a good time tonight,” Lindsay says. 

“Me too,” Rook replies. Not good enough that he’ll arrange another date, but… it’s been fun. A nice change. He’d forgotten how good it feels to do something romantic, to go out and be open about his sexuality, instead of skulking around in private. 

Lindsay squeezes Rook’s hand, leans forward a little, and Rook goes with it, tilting his head a little to avoid smushing his nose against Lindsay’s face. It’s not a great kiss. Actually, it’s downright _awful_ : awkward and unsure, too much in the way of teeth and saliva. But it feels good— unspeakably good— to kiss outside, in public, without hiding. Without fear. It's been a long time since he last did that. 

Rook draws back, wipes his mouth with his thumb. 

“You drive here, or should I give you a ride home?” he asks. 

“I’ll be okay, my car’s over there,” Lindsay replies. “I… hopefully, we’ll see each other again.”

“I hope so, too,” Rook agrees. He’d definitely like to spend more time with Lindsay, in a friend way. He’s a fun, interesting guy, even if there’s no romantic spark between them.

Lindsay smiles, and waves goodbye, heading to the other side of the parking lot. Rook waves back, and stands there for a moment longer, savouring the warm feeling in his stomach. He feels… he feels good. And it’s been a long time since he last felt like that. He'll have to thank Nancy for this, even if nothing long-term is going to come from it.

Someone clears their throat from behind Rook, and he turns, startled. 

It’s Joseph Seed, his female friend standing nearby. It’s hard to see, in the shadow of the lot, but his face looks a little flushed. Rook glances at the light above them, then at the entrance to the restaurant. Does a little mental math. Joseph probably got a good eyeful of Rook and Lindsay’s terrible kissing.

“Deputy, I…” Joseph begins, and he clears his throat. “The other day. I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank you?” Rook asks, dumbly. 

“Yes,” Joseph confirms. He pauses. “I’ll admit that I was upset at first, that you didn’t speak up for me sooner, before the arrest. But I spoke with my brothers, and… I understand. It was a difficult position to be in, and things would have been much worse had you not decided to call John on my behalf. And for that, I want to thank you.”

“Oh.”

Rook isn’t sure what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Joseph shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable. 

“Take care, Deputy,” Joseph says, before he excuses himself. “And please remember— there’s always a place for you in my flock.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not happy with this chapter, but i just want to get it uploaded and then i can come back and edit it later.

“Well?” Nancy presses, first thing Saturday afternoon. “How’d the date go?”

“It was good,” Rook admits. “Thanks for doing that.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Nancy coos, pinching Rook’s cheek. “When are you seeing each other again?”

“Uh,” Rook coughs. “We aren’t. We decided we were better as friends.”

Nancy looks crestfallen, but she nods, clearly understanding. 

“Well… I guess there’s plenty more fish in the sea,” Nancy sighs. “I’ll see about getting you someone else.”

“You really don’t have to,” Rook protests. 

“Well, I like to,” Nancy replies. “I like seeing people happy. I got Hudson a date for the wedding, you know— you’ll be real happy to see them together. I know I will.”

“What about Pratt? Doesn’t he get a date, too?”

“We’ll talk about him when he starts doing his own damned laundry,” Nancy replies. “He’d be a real catch if he ever decided to grow up.”

Yeah, Rook can see it. Pratt’s intelligent, and he’s kind and thoughtful, but he’s also mouthy and incredibly childish at times. 

“I’ll start dropping hints. See if peer-pressure helps any,” Rook promises. “Speaking of, is Pratt here?”

“No, Whitehorse let him have the day off. Had a big bust-up with Burke over it earlier, actually.”

“Damn,” Rook sighs. “I’m supposed to run him through the security stuff before the shifts change.”

The new security procedure is pretty simple: drive over to the Jessop Conservatory with a Peggie van. Count off the people waiting on a list provided by Eden’s Gate. If there’s anybody missing, inform Dispatch, who’ll co-ordinate with Joseph. Drive everybody up to the Holmes Island compound. Repeat procedure with the group up at Saint Francis. Someone else— Danny, Rook thinks, or maybe Todd, he’s not sure— is dealing with the Peggies working in the farms and ranches around Fall’s End. That’s a shorter journey overall, but takes longer ‘cause of all the stops. Hudson’s currently the one doing the morning run, talked him through the routes and the procedure Whitehorse worked out with Joseph. And since Pratt is going to be doing the security stuff when it’s his turn on night shift, Rook’s got to go through the route with Pratt at some point. Maybe Monday— Sunday is his current night off.

So far, the security stuff seems to be working. Most of the Peggies are accounted for— there were a couple guys that vanished when Joseph announced the new security measures, but they’d been expecting that. Burke had been grudging over the entire thing— said something worrying about the serial killer unravelling— but with the curfew, he and Whitehorse are in agreement on one thing: they’ve bought themselves some extra time before the next body turns up.

They still aren’t any closer to finding the killer, but it feels good to be _actively_ doing something to prevent more deaths. 

* * *

Sunday is a beautiful day. There’s a reason they call it ‘big sky country’ out here, Rook thinks, while he’s taking in the washing on his line. Somehow, the sky seems like it’s a different shade of blue. Brighter, better, somehow more. Like the future stretching out before him, a million shining possibilities.

Rook can’t help but smile as he sets about finishing his chores. Today’s not bad on that front— just finishing the laundry, then scrubbing down the bathroom, but he’s got to get some yardwork done later in the week. Oh, and he needs to find time to go up to Billings, get himself something nice to wear to the wedding reception (he’d wear plaid, but the invitation specifically says he’s gotta dress up). Then figure out a way to thank Rae-Rae for letting him dog-sit while she’s on vacation next month. Maybe some wine, or something. Wait, does she even drink? Maybe flowers would be better. Unless she’s allergic…

…Damn it. He has to get a wedding present, too. At least that one is easier— a giftcard would probably be fine, right? There’s a bunch of department stores in Billings, he can kill two birds with one stone. 

And speaking of Billings… it would be nice to bring John, too, have a little re-play of their first meeting. It’d been nice to wake up with him the morning after. He’d been such a gentleman, and has been since then. Witty, charming, thoughtful, handsome. Everything Rook’s ever wanted in a man. 

It’s a shame that they’re not dating, Rook thinks, setting his work shirts to one side, to be ironed later. He rolls the jeans, stuffs them in a drawer. He only bothers hanging his shirts ‘cause they wrinkle otherwise and Madeline keeps nagging about the fact he ‘looks a mess’. Would be nice to take John out for a candle-lit dinner, kiss him over dessert, gentle music and the quiet murmur of conversation in the background. Rook had forgotten how good it felt to do stuff like that, and in Hope County he feels more secure than he has in a long time. Nobody had given a shit about him and Lindsay clearly being on a date, and Joseph hadn’t been all that weird about seeing them kiss. Most other places, that would’ve garnered him a couple dirty looks, or worse. 

Rook lets his gaze drift from the clothes he’s folding to the invitation on his kitchen table. 

John seems like the kind of guy who likes parties. They wouldn’t even have to go as a couple— a plus one can be a completely platonic thing, can’t it? If John seems to like the idea of romance, it can be romantic. Slow-dancing, sipping sparkling grape juice, kissing between bites of cake, whatever. If not, they’ll still have a good time. Anyway, it’ll be good to have someone else around staying sober— be much easier to turn down the alcohol. And he’s seeing John tonight, anyway— had texted him a while ago: _still up for movies tonight?_  . The reply had been instant: _why not?._

Might as well, Rook decides. Going to a wedding party together is much less intimate than sex. He doesn’t have anything to lose. 

The day passes slowly, uneventfully. Rook goes grocery shopping. Spends half an hour talking to the clerk, a little about the murders (Rook isn’t allowed to say much), then mostly about the Fairgrave wedding coming up. He goes fishing for a couple hours, lets most of his catches flop back into the water, though he does take a couple trout back home with him. Catches up on a few episodes of some baking show. Calls Madeline. Eats box macaroni. Showers, splashing himself with cologne before he heads over to John’s— he’ll need to shower again later, for sure, but it seems important to make an effort if he’s going to ask John on what’s essentially a date. 

When Rook pulls up outside John’s home, the house is eerily still and quiet. Unusual— usually the Ranch is lit up by soft, golden lights, inside and out. Tonight, the outdoor lamps are off, and the windows are all dark, save for the kitchen, so Rook heads there.

John’s standing at the kitchen island, stirring a cup of coffee. He glances up at the sound of the back door opening. Watches Rook enter, closing the door behind him. 

“Evening, John,” Rook says. John’s eyes are pink again, slightly puffy. Something with his family again? Seems wrong to ask.

“I must say, I’m surprised to see you here,” John says, and his voice is far too casual. “I thought you wouldn’t bother with little old me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” John says, and though his words sound soft, his eyes look very hard, “I’m old hat now, aren’t I?”

“John,” Rook asks, sharply. “Whatever you’re trying to say, just say it already. I don’t have time for games.

“Fine,” John says, through gritted teeth. “Joseph said you were at Audrey’s the other day. On a date.”

Shit.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Rook says, quickly.

“Oh?” John asks, digging his cell out of his pocket. “Oh really? Exhibit A: one text message, sent at four oh-eight pee-em. Rain check on the movie night? Got some work to catch up with.”

John tuts, places his cellphone on the counter. He crosses his arms, fixes Rook with a hard, even stare.

“Now, I don’t know about _you_ ,” John continues, mock-thoughtful, “but a dinner date with one Doctor Charles Lindsay doesn’t seem very much like work to _me_.”

Rook swallows, his stomach sinking. So this is what John’s like in the courtroom. No wonder he wins so many cases.

“Nancy set me up, on a blind date,” he says. He’s not a confrontational person. Hates arguments, always has. “It didn’t mean anything.”

John looks at Rook, and his lip curls.

“Maybe it didn’t,” John says. “But you still lied to me.”

“Nancy works with me,” Rook says, dumbfounded. How can John not understand? “I was— it was a favour to her, so it was a work thing. I’m sorry you don’t see it that way, but—”

“Stop that,” John hisses. “Stop trying to justify yourself.”

John shakes his head, and Rook can see now— there’s a wetness at his eyes. 

“I thought things might be different with you,” he says, bitterly. “I thought that you might like me. You seemed like you did, back in Billings. You seemed to think that I was clever, and funny, and worth something. But you didn’t, did you?”

“I _did_ think that. I _do_ like you, John,” Rook starts, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on John’s shoulder. John swats his hand away, his teeth bared in an angry snarl. 

“Stop lying to me!” John yells, and he sweeps his arm across the table, sending the French press and the cups to the floor, where they shatter, hot coffee seeping across the tiles. “You’re so _full_ of pride, and lust, and gluttony! You can’t even see how fucked-up this situation is, can you?”

“The hell are you talking about?” Rook demands. He didn’t come here for this— not for a fight, and certainly not to witness a grown-ass man throwing a temper tantrum. 

“What does Lindsay have that I don’t?” John screeches. “Look around you! Does none of this mean anything to you? I’m better than that snivelling little creep, in every possible way! Why can’t you see that?!”

“I told you, it was a one-off date ‘cause Nancy wouldn’t let up,” Rook repeats, through gritted teeth. “Stop yelling at me.”

“Why was she trying to hook you up with someone in the first place?” John demands. “You _told_ me! You said it first! The first words out of your mouth, back at the Spread Eagle: ‘I’m not looking for a relationship’. The hell happened to that, huh? _Answer me_!”

“John, I already told you,” Rook snaps, the last remaining threads of his patience snapping, “I didn’t ask her to hook me up, she just did. I was being polite, that’s all. Why are you so mad about it?”

“Because _I’m_ the one you should be taking out on dates!” John shouts. His face is twisted horribly into rage. “You think I like waking up to an empty bed every morning? You think I want to be used like this? To be cast aside once you’re done with me, like I’m _nothing_? Like I’m _disposable_?”

“Excuse me? You’re the one who suggested—“

“Because _you_ said it first!” John howls, cutting across Rook. “ _You’re_ the one that made a big deal about not dating, not getting attached!” John shakes his head, lets out a bitter laugh. “I should’ve known better than to trust you. You’re nothing but a liar. A liar and a _whore_ and—“

“If you had a problem, you should have said something,” Rook interrupts. People always say that fire is red-hot, but the rage in Rook’s veins is ice-cold, sitting heavy in his stomach. “You don’t get to turn around and call me every name under the sun, ‘cause that shit applies just as much to you. You’re every bit as— as gluttonous, as lustful, as prideful as I am. In fact, you’re worse. You’re wrathful, you’re greedy, and you’ve got a jealous streak the size of Texas. Look in a fucking mirror, you hypocrite.”

“You—“

“No, John, _you_ listen to me,” Rook continues, talking over him. “I don’t give a shit about your house, or your money, or your looks. I care about communication. I care about being listened to. Those are two things you clearly know nothing about. You asked before, what Lindsay had over you. Well, you oughta think more about what you have over him. The hell would I want with a guy like you?” Rook tuts. “For a fancy-ass lawyer, you’re really fucking stupid. Harvard, my ass.”

John is quiet for a moment, his hands balled into fists, and for a split-second, Rook thinks that maybe John’s going to deck him. Let him try, he thinks. Rook isn’t a pudgy teenager anymore. He could easily take on John. Bring him down with a good blow to the nose and a knee to the liver.

But John doesn’t move. Just glares at Rook for a few seconds before opening his mouth.

“Get out,” he says. “Get out of my house.”

“Gladly,” Rook says, and he turns on his heel without another word. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, gals and pals. I had a minor computer issue so I typed about half of this on my phone. We have 1 or 2 chapters left, which I hope to upload before the 27th. Again, this is messy, (It is late and I have not proof read) but I intend on coming back and fully editing this at some point. Please enjoy.

There’s a tension in Rook’s gut. A heavy, painful, twisted feeing, the kind that goes hand-in-hand with restless energy bubbling through his veins, a gnawing ache in his throat. It doesn’t go away.

* * *

 

Jacob approaches Rook on a surprisingly cool Wednesday morning. He’s waiting at the compound with the group Rook’s taking up to Saint Francis. He doesn’t speak, just watches Rook from a distance as he counts the Peggies, ticks off their names, and lets them pile into the van.

Rook nods to Selene, Joseph’s black-haired assistant, who double-checks the list. Then he climbs into the driver’s seat, starts up the engine, and flicks on the radio. Which is the precise moment Jacob climbs into the passenger seat, carefully closing the door behind him as he reaches for the seatbelt buckle. 

“What are you doing?” Rook asks. 

“What’s it look like?” Jacob replies, and what little Rook can see of his face is twisted into a frown. “I’m going to therapy.”

‘You’re not on the list’ is on the tip of Rook’s tongue, but he’s pretty sure that’s the wrong thing to say. He simply nods, pulls out of the parking lot. Hopes that Jacob, all six-foot-God-knows-what of him, doesn’t try to choke him out or whatever. Takes the turning north smooth as he can, extremely aware of Jacob’s eyes on him.

Rook doesn’t speak, and the cheery Taylor Swift song blasting on the radio doesn’t do much to lift the heavy, uncomfortable silence that settles between the two of them. Rook bites his lip. He can’t enjoy the beautiful scenery like this.

“You doing all right, Deputy?” Jacob rumbles, as they pass the Grill Streak. 

“Yeah, I’m— I’m fine,” Rook replies. 

“Seem a little down, is all,” Jacob says, and he somehow manages to make it sound menacing. 

Rook isn’t sure what he can say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. Focuses on the road, cruises further north. He turns left when they get past the FANG Centre. It’s a slightly longer journey, but the sharp turn onto the unpaved road leading up to Saint Francis is a lot easier to take from the northwest, and Rook doesn’t want to take any chances with a van full of people.

“My brothers have been pretty down lately, too,” Jacob comments, and Rook’s heart nearly stops. Both are his fault.

“That so?” Rook manages. 

“Yeah. Joe’s pretty torn up about that agent arresting him,” Jacob says. “He was pretty pissed at you, actually, ’til John told him that you’re the one who called him over to do his legal shit.”

“I’m sorry he got arrested at all,” Rook says. 

“I get it,” Jacob snorts. “That fed is an asshole.”

Rook nods. Agrees, but can’t openly say so. If Burke would just listen, to Whitehorse or Pratt especially, things would be much easier. 

The van jolts a little as they pass over the bridge, and Rook hears a couple muffled complaints from the Peggies in the back. Still, it’s better than overturning the van on an extremely sharp corner. They pass onto the unpaved road with little trouble. 

“John’s in a pretty bad mood, too,” Jacob says, and the knotted feeling in Rook’s stomach returns full-force. “The other day, he told me to fuck off. Hasn’t done that since… well. Since he left college. He had a hard time, back then.”

John would’ve left college about ten years ago, right? That would be around the time he got clean from… well. Whatever it was that he’d been addicted to.

“Sorry to hear that,” Rook says. “Siblings can be tough.”

“Was wondering if you might know something about it,” Jacob says. “You guys seem real close lately.”

“We’re not that close,” Rook replies, quickly. Maybe too quickly. 

“You seemed pretty close the other day,” Jacob says, and there’s a hard edge to his voice. His unspoken words hang in the air: _I know you slept with my baby brother._

“Well, we weren’t,” Rook says, through gritted teeth. 

There’s silence, and Jacob crosses his arms over his seatbelt. Rook can see Saint Francis in the distance, thank God. 

“How were the cookies, by the way?” Jacob rumbles, as Rook slows, so he can pull into the courtyard.

“Good.”

“You’re not getting any more,” Jacob tells him, and he doesn’t say anything else for the sixty seconds or so that pass before Rook swerves neatly around the fountain and halts the van. 

Jacob hops out, doesn’t look back as he heads toward the hospital entrance, flanked by the assorted Peggies heading in for their various therapies. Rook gets out too, checks his list against the one held by the nurse on-duty. The results are exactly what he expected. Nobody went missing during the drive. 

Impulsively, Rook sends a short text message to Hudson: _if I go missing, Jacob Seed did it._

The reply is nearly instant, a brief moment of good cell signal. 

_okay. also why?_

Rook hesitates. Can’t tell him the full truth, so he settles for a small snippet of the bigger picture.

_I think I pissed him off._

_that isn’t hard to do. stace did the same thing and now jacob won’t stop calling him peaches. those seeds are all assholes, just ignore them_

That’s pretty much what Rook’s planning to do anyway. His phone buzzes again: _also did you get the ok from john about the search?? stace wanted to go looking tonight._

_No_ , Rook replies. _Pissed him off too._

_shit. i’ll ask whitehorse about it._

The drive back to Fall’s End is uneventful, and there’s a restlessness sinking into his bones. As much as Rook likes keeping people safe, this is a temporary measure until they can find the real killer. And yet there are no leads, no witnesses, no evidence.

Rook groans, turns the radio up until Adam Levine’s voice hurts his ears. It’s going to be a long day. A long week. A long _lifetime_. 

* * *

Rook looks at the price tag, scoffs, and hangs the blazer back on the rail.

“What was wrong with it?” Madeline asks, voice sharp even through the tinny speakers of his phone.

“It was a hundred dollars,” Rook replies.

“It’s an investment,” Madeline says, in her patient Mom Voice.

“For what? I’m never going to wear a suit again.”

“Well, what if Melanie gets married?” Madeline asks. He can hear the unspoken words: _you missed my wedding, ‘cause of your four-year temper tantrum, so you better make an effort for her._ “What if _you_ get married?”

“Melanie knows to expect me in jeans,” Rook replies. “Also? How dare you imply that plaid is not acceptable wedding attire.”

“Just pick out a nice blazer and a pair of loafers,” Madeline says, for the tenth time. “You can wear that with a plain t-shirt and a pair of… I don’t know, dark skinny jeans. You own a pair of those, right?” Rook grunts in reply. Yes, he does. “Then you’re all set, aren’t you?”

“I guess so. Thanks,” Rook says, and then he hangs up.

John would be good at this, he thinks. John, with his tailored suits and immaculate presentation and his style and his taste, would have loved an opportunity to dress Rook up like a mannequin. He’d have something perfect picked out within five minutes, would probably ebven reward Rook for his patience with a divine blow-job, once they got somewhere private.

Rook’s lip curls at the thought.

Don’t dwell on this shit, he tells himself. You both fucked up. It’s over. 

He ends up buying the blazer anyway, follows Madeline’s advice and gets a pair of black leather loafers, and he’s pretty sure his bank account starts crying as he hands the store clerk his card. Can’t believe he drove all the way to Billings to waste a week’s pay on clothes he’ll wear once. 

Whatever. You only live once, right?

* * *

John doesn’t call.

Rook doesn’t either.

* * *

Pratt radios in about forty minutes before Rook’s shift ends, on a warm August afternoon. He’s found something, a potential dump site. Rook gets sent out to help.

Pratt meets Rook at Holland Valley Station. It’s one of many freight stations in Hope County— there’s Copperhead a little further north, and the tracks also pass through the Ghost Cat mine and the old lumber mill. Pratt leads Rook down the bank, past the bridge. A few paces north, the vertical incline becomes, briefly, less vertical— it’s just enough that Pratt and Rook make their way down with no problem.

“Nancy mentioned tracks?” 

“Yeah, see these here?” Pratt points at deep gouges half-hidden in the undergrowth. “That’s what tipped me off.” 

“Okay,” Rook says. “She also mentioned evidence.” 

“Metal rods that look about the same size as those gouges, and also the same size as those wounds we found in the bodies. Don’t reckon there’s any evidence left on them, but there’s a couple kicked under the bushes here.” 

“Damn...” 

Rook helps Pratt photograph the scene and bag the rods, which get taken back up the steep river bank and deposited in the pickup truck Pratt’s been using for his self-imposed mission. Then, as Pratt radios in an update for Nancy, something catches Rook’s eye. A little white thing flapping in the breeze, a slip of paper taped haphazardly to one of the support posts of the bridge. 

**O’HARA’S HAUNTED HOUSE** , it reads. **EXPERIENCE _IT_**. Then an address, somewhere near here, Rook thinks. **OPEN SEPTEMBER 1**. 

Rook’s been to a fair few haunted houses, but none particularly terrifying. Would be interesting to see if Hope has something more horrifying than the rest of Montana. And besides that...

“Hey, you reckon this O’Hara fella might’ve seen something?” he asks, and Pratt pauses. Then he shakes his head. “Doubt it. From what I recall, you can’t see the dump site from his house. Worth a check anyway, I guess.” 

They end up driving over the railway bridge— Pratt leads, and Rook follows, praying that there are no extra freight trains today.

O’Hara’s place (a badly-repaired house next to a large barn covered in bright lights) turns out to not have a view of the dump site, which is confirmed when they speak to O’Hara. He’s a large man, the kind of stout strength often seen in those “world’s strongest” competitions. He clearly doesn’t trust either Rook or Pratt, answering their questions with obvious suspicion.

Shouldn’t be surprised, Rook tells himself. Whitehorse warned him, when he started, that some folks wouldn’t appreciate his presence.

“One last thing,” Rook says, when they’re about ready to head off, having established that O’Hara knows nothing. “What time does the haunted house open?”

O’ Hara looks at Rook. 

“It’s not ready yet,” he says, and his voice is a little nasal, a little reedy. 

“I know, but I’d like to visit when it is. I saw your poster on the bridge— September first, right? Is there a time it’ll be open? I love Halloween.” 

O’Hara pauses. Looks at Rook for a long, uncomfortable moment, then points at the barn.

“Come by after six. Put five dollars in the box, and the door will open automatically.”

“Great,” Rook says. “Thank you.”

O’Hara looks at him, and very slowly closes the door in their faces. 

* * *

The Fairgrave wedding reception is held over at the Hollyhock Saloon in the Henbane— “more space,” Chris explains, gesturing at the pretty little tables outside the building. Katie’s uncle is the owner, and the whole place is decorated real nice with fairy lights and banners wishing the happy couple well. As one would expect from the local bar-owning families, there’s a steady supply of drinks, and Casey Fixman dishes up hell of a lot of mouth-watering food.

Drew and Katie are the centre of attention, as they should be. Beautiful in the way that a wedding couple always manage to be: joy and love radiating so strongly from each of them, it almost makes Rook dizzy. (It succeeds in making him jealous, for sure.) 

There are a lot of guests coming and going, bringing gifts, taking a couple sips of champagne, a dance or two, and then going. Rook sees near enough everybody in the county at some point. Whitehorse shows up with a woman around his age hanging on his arm— Rook forgets her name quickly, but she’s witty and pleasant, and he won’t forget her face in a hurry. Miss Jessop shows up after a few hours, pink flowers in her hair to match her flowing dress, holding hands with her friend from the diner. The friend is wearing a bright, sharply-tailored suit, her hair left loose. Maybe they’re dating, Rook thinks, and that’s the moment Miss Jessop turns to her friend, smiling brightly, and presses a kiss to her mouth. Yep. Definitely dating. 

Pratt is alone, and ends up staking out a table for the Sheriff’s Department staff. Nancy joins them for an hour or so— keeps picking Rook’s brain whenever Pratt goes to get more drinks.

“How about the guy with the red suit?”

“I don’t know, Nance. Too skinny. Gotta be strong.”

“Oh? Then the blonde one, with the beard, over by the piano?”

“Yeah, he looks good.”

“Sadly he’s married, but I hear he’s got a brother in Helena...” 

“You really don’t have to, Nance...”

“Shush, you. I want to find you someone nice.” 

Whitehorse and his girlfriend don’t stay very long— Whitehorse wants to head back to let Todd and Hudson have a little fun as well, and Nancy goes with them, a rueful smile on her weathered face. 

“These dancing feet just aren’t what they used to be,” she sighs. 

When Hudson shows up, in a black shirt and dress pants, she’s quickly greeted with a kiss to the lips by one Mary-May, to Pratt’s chagrin.

“Come on!” Pratt complains. “How’s you get a girlfriend before me?”

“I’m not an ass,” Hudson replies, simply, and Mary-May giggles.

It’s a pleasant evening, sitting together, talking about something other than work and serial killers.

Rook looks out over the dancefloor. His stomach clenches at the sight of so many happy couples together. He should be dancing with them, he thinks. Holding gloved hands, gazing into blue eyes. 

Stop that, he thinks, and he forces himself back to reality. Focuses on the flow of conversation, laughs loudly at Pratt’s shitty jokes. Doesn’t think about what he’s missing. Doesn’t think about anything at all, except what he wants to eat next and how nice the party is and how happy Drew and Katie are and how much he hates Blurred Lines (why is that even on the playlist?).

It’s a long night, but it’s a good one. He sleeps like the dead when he finally stumbles into his home, crashing on the couch in lieu of walking all the way to his bedroom.

* * *

Boomer yaps, happily bounds to the gate as Rook approaches, greeting his sitter enthusiastically as he parks near the garage, just next to the currently-empty stall Rae-Rae runs. Last month, it was full of things like pumpkin and apple preserves, chutneys and jams and dried fruit, recipe books and little ornaments. Next month, Rae-Rae had said, it’ll be full of fresh pumpkins, as well as juices, pies, and pastries.

“Hello, who’s a good boy?” Rook coos, scratching Boomer behind the ears. He checks the mailbox: there are a couple envelopes, which he gathers. He heads into the house, deposits the envelopes on the kitchen counter he doesn’t use. Does a quick check: all the windows and doors are locked like they were when he left this morning. 

Room would’ve taken Boomer to his place, but Rae-Rae insisted that Rook ought to to come up and stay at the Pumpkin Farm while she’s on vacation: “gonna put my mind at ease, knowing Boomer and the house are getting looked after”, and he hadn’t had the heart to argue. It’s a nice place, a picture-perfect, picket-fence slice of the American Dream. The guest room is small, but Rook doesn’t need a whole lot of space.

“You want a walk, Boomer? Or you want to eat first?”

Boomer practically starts bouncing at the mention of ‘walk’, so Rook fetches the lead, clips it onto Boomer’s collar so it’s secure. Grabs a couple plastic baggies out of the drawer in the kitchen before he leads Boomer out. They walk south, heading down the drive, then along the main road until they hit the trail that goes up to the lookout tower. Boomer seems to like the hills, eagerly sniffing everything in sight as Rook trudges along behind him.

“I’m tempted to take you home and adopt you,” Rook tells Boomer. “But I don’t think your mom would like that, would she?”

Boomer barks enthusiastically, and dashes off into the bushes.

All in all, it’s a nice afternoon. It feels good to get out for something other than work, to be able to relax a little.

* * *

The pieces are picked up and put back together just as suddenly as they fell apart in the first place.

It’s a normal, dull morning at the Sheriff’s Department. Rook returns from the Peggie run, settling into his usual routine of checking his email, continuing his never-ending reports, stretching his legs every now and again with a trip to the kitchenette for coffee. Hudson comes in, greets him, and heads out on patrol, and the mornings stretches on. Boring. He sees Whitehorse a couple times, makes small talk with Nancy, but... all in all, it’s dull and regular, until it’s not.

Rook heads out to the local bakery for lunch, buys a sandwich stuffed with cheese and ham and salad, and an apple juice. When he returns to the office, he finds John standing there. He’s stopped by Rook’s desk, staring at the papers littered across it.

“Good morning,” Rook says, and John’s head snaps up, as though he was previously lost in thought. John’s eyebrows draw up, his eyes widen in surprise. He clearly hadn’t expected Rook to be here. 

“It’s two PM,” John says. 

“Yeah, it is,” Rook agrees. “Pratt’s on night shift this month.”

“Oh.”

There’s silence for a moment. Rook doesn’t know what to say, and for once, John doesn’t seem to know either. 

“Is there something I can do for you?” Rook asks, and he tries to sound helpful, friendly. 

“I... I’m here to pick up some...” John clears his throat. “Hudson had some speeding tickets for me.”

“That so?” Rook asks. He steps over to Hudson’s desk, sees the envelope with John’s name immediately. “Ah. Here.” 

John takes the envelope, but doesn’t immediately leave. He looks at Rook. Opens his mouth, then closes it. The air is heavy between them. 

John purses his lips for a moment, then nods at Rook. 

“Thanks,” he mutters. “Guess I’ll be on my way.” 

Rook watches John stride toward the door, stomach sinking with every step. This _sucks_. He can’t live like this _forever_.

“Wait,” Rook says, and surprisingly enough, John does, looking back with those dazzling eyes. 

He should at least clear the air between them. They won’t be close as they were, but this horrible, semi-hostile awkwardness needs to end.

“I want to apologise,” Rook says. “I didn’t intend to lie to you, but I did. I know I hurt you. I’m sorry.” 

“You are?” John asks, frowning.

“Yeah,” Rook says. “I regret it. What happened. I, uh. I shouldn’t have lied. I didn’t mean to, and I didn’t realise how cruel I was being, but I did it. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Oh,” John says. He looks up at Rook. Clears his throat. “I... I suppose that I’m sorry too. For yelling like I did. You were right— it was beneath me.” 

That isn’t the apology that Rook wanted, but... John is a proud man. It’s probably the best Rook is going to get. 

There’s silence again, but it’s less awkward this time. John looks much less uncomfortable, almost like he wants to stay and talk. And maybe he will— Rook opens his mouth again.

“You know what the funny thing is?” Rook asks. “When I came over, I was going to invite you on a date.” 

“You were?” John asks. 

“Yeah. To the Fairgrave wedding. I’d been thinking long and hard about what I wanted, and I’d decided that I wanted to give us a shot.”

John snorts.

“Figures,” he says. “That’s just my luck. I have a knack for ruining things before they’ve begun.” 

“Well, the offer’s still there if you ever decide to take it,” Rook’s mouth says, with zero input from his brain, and Rook cringes inwardly. Shit. 

John’s mouth falls open slightly. He takes a couple steps forward, ‘til he’s within arm’s reach, until Rook can smell his cologne, stirring up heat in his belly.

“You’re serious?” he asks, those pretty eyes all wide. 

“I— yes,” Rook admits. “But, uh,  I’m not going through that again. The fight, I mean. I don’t want us to bottle everything up until we start screaming again.”

“I can do that,” John says, quickly. “I can be nice.” 

“I don’t need _nice_ , I need _open_ _communication_ ,” Rook says. “You feel good, you say it. You feel bad, you say it. You want something, we talk about it.” 

“I can do that,” John insists. “As long as I have you. _All_ of you. You’re mine, and not anybody else’s.”

“I’m _mine_ , first andforemost,” Rook corrects him. “I don’t want anybody who isn’t you.”

“I—“ John starts, and he pauses, sounding choked off. He lifts his hands, slides them over Rook’s shoulders. Looks lost, hopelessly lost for a moment before he looks up, and those blue eyes narrow.  “Come here, you,” John growls, and then he’s kissing Rook.

John tastes like coffee and garlic— maybe he ate pasta or something for lunch. Rook tilts his head a little more, brings his hand up to cup John’s jaw, caressing the soft fuzz of his beard. He deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue against John’s, nibbling gently on his lower lip. Thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being so close, without any intention of going further— or at least not _here_.

“Let me take you out,” Rook says, when he draws back for breath. “A date. Let’s do it _right_ this time.” 

“Yes,” John agrees. “Yes, I’d like that.” 

“Saturday,” Rook says. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Please do,” John says, breathlessly, and he looks delighted. It’s the most beautiful thing Rook’s seen in a long time, so Rook kisses him again.

* * *

Selene is reported missing on the first of September.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end. I'm aware that the last few chapters have been rushed. I'm on a very tight time crunch right now and needed this done. I'm sorry for the mistakes and the strange pacing of the last five or so parts, but I am planning to come back at some point and re-edit this. There will be a couple side-stories and a sequel set in this universe. 
> 
> I've loved writing this, and I'm so thankful that so many people have enjoyed it so far. 
> 
> (the next chapter is a bonus/lighthearted epilogue)
> 
> Also, as a warning, this chapter contains some frank discussion of the Seed sibling's pasts-- be prepared for past drug use, child abuse, and all the other things that happen to them.

It’s a mess. It’s a goddamn mess.

Rook wakes up, feeling refreshed and excited for the first time in far too long, despite the scant amount of sleep he’d gotten. He’s got an awesome date planned out: a romantic picnic and a mini road trip around the county, something heartfelt without being overly grand or sappy.

That good feeling lasts until eight, when Rook gets to the Peggie compound and Selene isn’t there. Nobody seems to know where she is.

“She wasn’t here last night either,” one of the women offer, wringing her hands. “You don’t think…?”

It’s better to be safe than sorry. Rook calls it in. Joseph’s not at the compound, but maybe Nancy can get in touch with him. She seems to be in close contact with everybody in the County. 

Rook carries out his usual routine: the first round of Peggies go to Miss Jessop’s place. 

“You seen Selene lately?” Rook asks Miss Jessop’s girlfriend, whose name he can’t remember. 

“Not since Wednesday,” she replies, coolly. “Why?”

“No reason,” Rook lies. “No need to worry.”

By the time Rook finishes his second round, with the Saint Francis group, and returns to the station, everything is chaos. Joseph is at the station, speaking urgently to Whitehorse, while Burke leans against a nearby cabinet, scowling. Hudson looks about ready to die at her desk. Clearly it has not been a very good morning.

“—not since yesterday, around noon,” Joseph finishes, and Whitehorse looks mournful. “Usually I wouldn’t call so early, but with everything that’s happened so far…”

“I told you this would happen,” Burke says, shaking his head. “Killers always do this. They always devolve. The hell did you think would happen? He’d just stop killing when his normal victims became unavailable?”

“You don’t know it was the killer,” Whitehorse snaps. “You going to do anything useful, or keep running your mouth all day?”

“I’m going to do whatever I have to in order to solve this damned case,” Burke replies. “With or without your help.”

There’s a lot of work to be done: someone has to search Selene’s house, piece together the last places she was seen. Hudson heads off with Burke to do that, and Rook breathes a sigh of relief: the air is too heavy with both Whitehorse and Burke around, clashing as they are. Rook gets to call around: Selene’s mother doesn’t recall any mention of vacations or trips away. Her sister remembers that Selene had been looking forward to celebrating the harvest with the rest of Eden’s Gate. No enemies. No disturbances. No problems. 

Around three PM, a car with a description very similar to Selene’s is found up in the Henbane, by one of the guys that runs US Auto, and Rook’s dispatched to go take a look. The numberplate matches Selene’s, when he runs it. Weird. 

Weirder still, the car is perfectly fine. The engine is working order, there aren’t any major problems, so far as Rook can see. He even calls the guy who found it, gets him up to take a look, and they find nothing that could’ve stalled the car. It needs an oil change soon, and the brakes need a little TLC, and that’s about all. 

The strangest thing of all, though? Selene’s keys are still in the ignition. It’s as though she just stopped her car and got out and… vanished. 

“Why the hell would she stop?” Rook groans, but there’s no apparent answer. No other vehicles nearby, no remains of any kind (animal or human). Nothing remotely strange or suspicious, other than Selene’s car.

“Beats me,” the trucker says. “Maybe she saw broke-down car ot something and wanted to help? I hear that’s how a lot of serial killers get the ladies.”

“Damn it,” Rook says. That would makes sense. He sighs. They’ll need to warn the locals to be on their guard. 

* * *

Nancy pokes her head around the door.

“I know you’re awful busy,” she says, “but Nick Rye needs some help.”

“Tell him I'm on the way,” Rook volunteers, seizing the opportunity to escape. Whatever Nick is dealing with is going to be a million times better than the stifling atmosphere here. “What’s his problem?”

“Hard to tell,” Nancy says, “but it seems like Kim’s in some trouble.”

Kim Rye? Trouble? Shit. Rook’s stomach sinks. Third trimester— and that’s gotta be where she’s at now, eight months in with a stomach the size of a goddamn beach ball— is supposed to be the safest one, right? Admittedly he doesn’t know a hell of a lot about pregnancy, or uteruses, not having much personal experience with either of those topics. 

“I’l be there in five,” Rook promises, and Nancy returns to the desk, waving him off with a fond smile. 

Rye Aviation seems to be in one piece when Rook pulls up, lights flashing. There’s a muffled wailing in the air, when he gets out of the cruiser, and it gets louder as he approaches the house. Rook knocks at the door, and Nick Rye yells back: 

“Come on in!”

Rook enters the house, wary. Seems to be in order— the only thing that looks out-of-place is Kim curled on the couch, gripping Nick’s hand so tight his fingers are mottled red-and-white. 

“You called for help?” Rook asks. 

“Kim’s in labour,” Nick explains. “My car… the engine just packed in, and I can’t fly us over to the clinic and I… I panicked a little.”

“You know they have an air ambulance, right?” Rook asks, stepping over to the couch, helping Nick get Kim to her feet. 

“Hate… hate heights…” Kim pants, and she groans again. Nick’s quick to soothe her, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“I’m sorry to trouble y’all,” Nick apologises, taking most of Kim’s weight as they approach the door. “Hey— you mind grabbing that bag?”

Rook nods, taking the only visible bag— a duffle, on a hook within arm’s reach— as they pass. 

“I get it,” he says, opening the door for Nick and Kim. “Hope County Clinic, right? I’ll get you there safe and sound.”

Air ambulance aside, there’s not really any other way the Ryes could get to the clinic. There’s no taxi company around these parts, and waiting for a friend would take too long: even though there’s no shortage of people eager to help the Ryes, most people are working right now, in fields or in the mountains. The local fire station is up in the Whitetails, ‘cause that’s where most of the county’s fires are, and the park rangers don’t really come down to Fall’s End. 

It doesn’t take long to bundle Nick and Kim in the back of the cruiser. Kim’s white-faced and white-knuckled, clinging onto Nick so tight he probably couldn’t drive even if his car was working. Rook flicks the red-and-blue lights of the cruiser on, keeps the siren off, and hits the gas. 

Nick’s helpful— gives Rook directions as they go, even though Rook doesn’t really need them anymore. Okay, the Whitetails are still a bit of a mystery, and the far eastern edge of the Henbane still gives him a headache, but by and large, he knows Holland Valley well enough. Rook doesn’t complain, though. Nick clearly needs the distraction, and Rook won’t begrudge his well-meant attempts at kindness. 

It’s a pretty standard journey. A couple vehicles Rook smoothly overtakes, a few corners he takes just a little too sharply. Really, the most troublesome thing is a short-cut through some woods Nick insists upon, which isn’t that much of a short-cut ‘cause there’s also a pretty sizeable herd of deer dead in the centre of the road. Now that requires some real careful manoeuvring, and it’s not easy with Kim screaming in pain and Nick frantically trying to backseat drive. 

“No, no, no, go left, go left!” 

“If I go left, I’m going to crash,” Rook replies. He flicks on the siren for a couple seconds: it does the trick, the deer ahead scattering. It’s chaos for a moment, then there’s a clear space, and Rook flicks the siren off again. It’s tight, but they squeeze past without hurting any deer or scraping the cruiser up, and then it’s only thirty seconds or so until Rook screeches to a halt outside the clinic. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, partner,” Nick says, helping Kim to the entrance. Rook holds the door open for them. 

“We won’t forget this,” Kim manages, before the nurse appears, whisking the Ryes to the birthing room. 

It’s the nicest thing to happen all fucking day.

* * *

 

The date starts well enough. Rook shows up at Seed Ranch dressed in his favourite clothes: a particularly soft, worn red plaid, and the jeans that John seems to like. He’s nervous: stomach full of butterflies, hands trembling as he knocks on the door.

“Good evening,” John says, opening the door, and the soft smile he gives Rook makes everything seem somehow better. 

John, of course, is dressed to the nines. A sharp suit, fancy little cufflinks in the shape of scales, a smudge of kohl around his eyes, throat liberally doused in some expensive cologne. It’s hard to imagine how someone like him (beautiful, successful, intelligent) could possible be interested in someone like Rook (just… entirely normal). 

Rook takes him to the bakery in Fall’s End. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, apologetically. “I thought that we could get to know each other a little better tonight. I wanted to show you some of my favourite places in the county, so I figured we could take a picnic, watch the sun set.”

“How very quaint,” John says, and he’s still smiling, so it’s probably fine, right?

Rook’s got strawberries, cherries, and apples in the cooler already. He buys a couple bottles of fancy-ass sodas and juices, as well as some shortbread cookies. Hope County is just close enough to the Iowa border that they make runza, so Rook buys a couple of those as well. John picks out a few sandwiches for them to share: bologna, swiss, salted beef, beetroot salad. 

There’s a lot of nice places in the county, but they end up eating at the top of the mountain in the centre of the Henbane. 

“Joseph does sunrise services up here sometimes,” John says, between bites of apple. “Surprised nobody built anything up here. A statue or a church or something."

“Kind of glad they haven’t,” Rook replies, and it’s true. Atop the cliff there’s a gloriously unobstructed view of the sky, of the hills and mountains and forests, and the lake itself. It wouldn’t be the same if there were something else here, somehow. 

John hums, and there’s an amicable silence for a while. 

It’s windier here than the rest of the county. Higher ground, less sheltered by the mountains surrounding Hope. It whistles across the grass, ruffles Rook’s hair, a pleasant reminder that it’s basically fall. 

It’s quiet here. So quiet that Rook almost doesn’t notice when John begins to speak.

“If you’d told me ten years ago that I’d be sitting here, feeling happy and content, in good company…” John trails off, the expression on his face unreadable. “…I don’t think I’d have believed you.”

Rook waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. 

“You want to talk about that?”

John laughs, shakes his head. 

“Not really,” he says. “But I suppose it’s important, isn’t it? Understanding who we are and where we’ve come from. I’ll warn you, it’s a long story."

“Got nowhere better to be,” Rook replies, and he shifts his hand, curls his fingers over John’s. John looks up at him, smiles, those beautiful eyes crinkling. 

“I… I suppose it started when we were kids,” John says. “I expect you’ve gathered that I’m the youngest, by quite a margin. Joseph is more like a father to me than a brother— the same for Jacob. Our parents were… not the best. I don’t know all of the details, and I don’t particularly want to. Suffice to say, things were bad enough that Jacob took us away from that place the second he turned eighteen. Joseph was around fifteen at the time, I think. Which would have made me three or four. They raised me— or rather, Joseph did. Jacob worked a series of manual labour jobs until Joseph came of age, and then Jacob enlisted and… that’s how things were for a very long time.”

Rook nods. Sounds like it was a difficult time for them all. It explains John’s strange relationship with Joseph, the oddly subservient way he tends to act around him. 

“So Jacob would go off on deployment for months at a time, and Joseph would work whatever he could get to keep food on the table, to bolster our savings a bit. I was the darling of the family— any extra money we had would go to me, or my education. There was no question that I would eventually go to college. I wasn’t any smarter than Joseph or Jacob, you understand, but I had more opportunity than they did, and for that I’m incredibly grateful.”

“They’re very selfless people,” Rook says. 

“Oh, they are,” John agrees, and he pauses. “Now… you’ve seen Joseph’s file. You know there was… you know that he was quite seriously ill.”

“I do,” Rook says. He won’t elaborate, in case it seems as though he’s trying to pass judgement. 

“Well, he was always a religious man,” John says, and now he looks more nervous. “I didn’t realise at the time… I thought it was normal to be so devout. He’d pray all the time, devote any time he had that wasn’t looking after me or working praying and reading the Bible… he was obsessed with the Book of Revelations in particular. He was always very strict with me about those things. I had to behave well, and I did. I had to attend church and pray valiantly, and try to avoid sin. And I did. Or at least, I tried. For the longest time, I didn’t dare tell him about— that I like men as well. That was the level of strict I was dealing with.”

“Sounds hard,” Rook says, and he means it. 

“It was,” John agrees. “He lightened up a little when he got a girlfriend. I think it helped that she was just as religious as he was. Except that her faith wasn’t— it was just regular spirituality. Whereas Joseph… Looking back, it’s obvious. His religious mania was a symptom of his mental illness. It’s hard to explain, but… he’s so different now. He smiles. He enjoys things. Not everything is connected to the apocalypse. And for a while, Mary really helped him. She could tell something wasn’t quite right, and he was better with her. He realised it too— they got married, and they even had a baby girl, right about the time I went off to college. My little niece, Faith. I only met her once, over Winter break.”

Rook doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. 

“I didn’t know how much he was struggling,” John says. “I was caught up with my own troubles. I had a lot of trouble— it was easy to be great at everything when I was in a shitty, sub-standard high school. I’d never really learnt to study. I was… well. I’m ashamed to say that I went off the rails. I felt bad about myself, so I drank too much and I went to too many parties. I had sex with anybody who’d consent, and I indulged in everything I could. I had a friend who gave me his ADHD meds, ‘cause he hated taking them and I needed the help. And that was fine for a while. Until I got a call from Joseph, freaking out about God telling him to kill his baby, begging me to help him quiet the voices in his head. I hadn’t even known that Mary was dead. And— god. I needed something stronger, when Joseph was in the hospital.”

“Cocaine?” Rook guesses. Stimulant. Would fit well with John’s story. 

“That’s right,” John says. “And that worked great, between the sex and the alcohol and everything else, until it didn’t. I’d managed to get a pretty awesome job at a law firm back in Georgia. And then… well. Jacob’s newest deployment… there was some kind of problem. I don’t know what happened, but he was really messed up. He wouldn’t eat for the longest time. Had to be fed intravenously. So I self-medicated some more, and by the time Jake was well enough to come home, I was spending as much as I was making on my habit. Obviously Joseph was suspicious when I suddenly couldn’t contribute to Jake’s medical care, when I started asking to borrow a couple dollars here and there, when I’d always been so careful to avoid that kind of thing. It was inevitable that they’d find out, and they eventually did.”

“Did you go to rehab?” Rook asks. 

“Yes,” John says. “It wasn't a cure-all. I still had a lot of issues— I still do.  Couldn’t believe that I was lovable. That I deserved to feel good. That I was enough.”

“You are,” Rook says. “You’re incredible.”

“And you’re too kind,” John replies, and he takes a long, relieved breath. “Well. That’s about it. I don’t suppose you have any equally damning stories?”

“That wasn’t damning,” Rook says. “And no. My home life wasn’t that interesting. Two loving parents, two older sisters. We moved around a lot when I was a kid. Otherwise, we had a pretty good time. My mom was very upset when I came out. She’s still kind of upset now. We don’t talk as much as we used to. That’s about it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John says, and he genuinely does look so very sorry. 

“Let’s change the subject,” Rook says. Talking about all this sad shit isn’t really conductive for what he wants (which is John all over him, out of desire, not pity). “How about something more fun?” And then inspiration strikes: “I— hey, have you ever been to a haunted house?”

John looks surprised. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Joseph always hated them.”

“Well,” Rook replies, “how about a little rebellion?”

John laughs, and kisses him on the mouth. 

“Rebellion sounds wonderful,” he says. 

It doesn’t take long to clear up and get to O’Hara’s. Rook figures they’ll have a lot of privacy— who in the hell comes to a haunted house on its first night open?

The barn decorations and lights are bright, even in the half-darkness of sunset. John holds Rook’s hand as soon as they leave the car, intertwining their fingers together. Rook slips two five-dollar bills in the slot near the door, and there’s a buzzing sound and the door swings open. 

“Ooh, that’s so ominous,” John laughs. “I love it already.”

The joyful mood doesn’t last all that long. The first scare is a pretty good one— it’s unexpected and bizarre. And— well. John doesn’t move with Rook when he tries to move on. He’s staring at the dummy, a furrow between his brows, looking paper-white even in the warm lights of the house.

“You all right?” Rook asks, and John’s grip on Rook’s hand quickly tightens. 

“That’s Avery,” John says, and his voice wobbles. “He— I saw him in August. How…?”

“You sure?” Rook asks. He reaches forward, presses one hand against the dummy, and— 

It’s not a dummy. It’s not plastic. It’s flesh, cold skin under Rook’s fingers, and he jerks back, nausea rising in his throat. 

Rook takes a step back, then another, and leads John back to the door. The door which steadfastly refuses to open when Rook tries it, continues to be an ass when he rattles the handle, when he kicks the door.

“Shit,” Rook says. He checks his phone: no signal.

“We— there’s— there’s got to be an exit, right?” John asks, and he’s not really asking, he’s clearly starting to panic. 

“Yeah,” Rook replies, and he lets John drag him through the rest of the haunted house, jumping at every fucking electric screech, every dummy— but they’re not dummies at all, and now Rook’s seen that he can’t un-see it. He can’t help but wish he’d brought his handgun— but it’s in the truck, ‘cause he only brought it along in case of a cougar attack or something.

Notably, there’s one room that doesn’t have a dummy: a small living-room with a couch and a window, and a metal track on the floor that’s attached to a large pole. Where a dummy is clearly supposed to go. Which is somehow worse than the actual literal dead bodies someone strung up.

Eventually, they make it through to an empty room, devoid of both furniture or dummies. Which would be a hell of a lot more reassuring if there was a way out. Except there’s not: the walls are all plain wood. There’s some straw on the floor, a couple crates stacked near the wall, a small opening in the ceiling. 

“There’s no exit,” John says, and his voice trembles. “Shit.”

“There’s got to be a way out,” Rook says, more to reassure them both than anything else. He squeezes John’s hand, runs his thumb along John’s knuckles in a way he hopes is soothing. He points at the hole above them. “Hey— you think one of us could fit up there?”

“I— well, I suppose…” John trails off. “Ah— the crates. We could climb up. I saw windows when we were outside— if we can get to the front end of the building, we can slide down the roof.”

Rook is the first to climb up. He emerges in an attic room, largely empty. There are shelves and a desk and a rusted bed-frame, and— most importantly— a man in a butcher’s apron and a surgeon’s mask, leaning over a bathtub. There’s someone in it, an arm flopping out all bloody.

“Don’t move!” Rook barks, and of course, the man looks up, spots Rook, and makes a break for it.

Rook forces himself up and sprints forward, and it’s only by sheer luck that he manages to bowl the man over. He’s tall. Strong, but not particularly athletic. His foot gets caught in a cable, and it slows him just long enough for Rook to barrel into him, knocking him down, and Rook struggles to keep him there. The surgical mask slips down: it’s O’Hara. 

“Oh God!” John exclaims, from somewhere behind Rook. “Selene! Shit!”

“Call for help!” Rook orders. “There’s a landline on the desk, right?”

“Yes,” John replies, and a couple moments later: “Nancy, you need to send everybody you have up to O’Hara’s. And an ambulance— he’s killing Selene.”

The next couple minutes are simultaneously the longest and shortest of Rook’s life. John does something to the person in the bathtub— must be Selene— on the orders of whoever’s on the other end of the line. Impromptu first-aid. Rook does his best to hold O’Hara on the ground, wishing he’d thought to take his handcuffs on the date. Honestly, he doesn’t remember much later, except the rolling anger in his stomach, the wild struggling of O’Hara underneath him, the weird bullshit spilling from his mouth. 

“You don’t understand!” O’Hara spits, trying to buck Rook off. “It’s here! It’s coming! It must be appeased!”

“Shut the hell up!” Rook yells, praying to a God he no longer believes in that he can hold on a little longer. Rook is, by no stretch of the imagination, a weak man. But O’Hara is extremely strong, and he’s exhausted, damn it. 

Eventually, help arrives. Someone— Pratt, Rook thinks, dimly— tazers O’Hara. Makes the struggling stop just long enough for Burke to snap the cuffs on, inform O’Hara that he’s under arrest.

“Dude, you okay?” Pratt asks, once O’Hara’s subdued. Rook looks up at him, then at the paramedics who’re coming through the open window, taking over from whatever John’s doing, leaning into the bathtub like he is. “The hell are you guys doing out here?”

“We… we had a date,” John replies, and he’s got a far-away look in his eyes, his blood-covered hands trembling in front of him. 

It takes a while for the paramedics to treat Selene. Long enough that both John and Rook end up sitting outside, wrapped in shock blankets, giving awkward witness statements to Pratt. Burke’s already hauled O’Hara off to the jail. 

“This explains the Grindr,” Pratt mutters, and can’t quite look either of them in the eye. Which is not the worst reaction Rook’s ever had, so he’ll let it slide. 

Eventually, Whitehorse comes over, looking all solemn.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “They couldn’t save her.”

“Selene,” John whispers, and he looks crushed. 

“We can’t save everybody,” Whitehorse says, laying a hand upon John’s shoulder. “But you two managed to save a couple more, even if you don’t feel it. O’Hara’s notes indicate he was going to continue even after completing his haunted house.”

“That’s something, at least,” Rook agrees, but he doesn’t feel it. This is a hollow victory.

“Don’t look like that,” John says, curling his cool, sticky fingers around Rook’s even tighter. “We’re alive, aren’t we? Isn’t that what matters?”

“Yeah,” Rook agrees. “I guess it is.”

Some days that’s all you got, he thinks, and he draws John into another, thankful, kiss. 


	17. Chapter 17

Rook closes his eyes, taking another bite of a gloriously decadent brownie. He can’t help but moan: it’s perfectly fudgy, virtually dissolving on his tongue.

“That good?” John asks, and Rook nods. “Ah, then I’ll try some.”

“H’lp y’rs’lf,” Rook mumbles, around a mouthful of chocolate heaven, and John kisses him, tongue pressing between his lips, fingers curling in Rook’s hair. John pulls back after a moment, having successfully managed to scoop a chunk of brownie out of Rook’s mouth. 

“That _is_ good,” John says, thoughtfully. 

“That is _gross_ ,” Rook replies, squinting up at him as he swallows his mouthful of cake. “I was _eating_ that.”

“You were ignoring me,” John corrects, and he kisses Rook again, this time snaking his hand down to Rook’s ass, squeezing tight as he grinds their hips together. 

Rook is clothed, John is not. Or rather, John is wearing only an unbuttoned silk shirt and underwear, and socks with little calf-garters (which really shouldn’t be sexy, but it’s John, so they kind of are). 

Rook groans. John’s hard, and it’s— it’s hot. But he’s eating, damn it. And he wants to continue eating. The only thing better than John’s stupid-comfortable bed (where Rook spends most nights nowadays) and eating dessert is combining the two, a frankly ingenious move on John’s part. Except he seems to think this counts as foreplay. 

“I told you, didn’t I?” Rook says. “If you bring food in the bedroom, all I’m gonna do is eat it.”

“If I put whipped cream on my dick, will you lick it off?” John asks. 

“No,” Rook replies. Whipped cream on its own is fine. Delicious, even. Mixed with semen? No. Mixed with weirdly artificial condom flavours? Double no. 

“You’re killing me,” John informs him, mournfully. 

“Probably,” Rook agrees, and— damn it, John’s doing that puppy-eye thing again. Fine. If he wants sex, he can have it. Or at least someone else’s hand around his dick. That counts, right?

Rook shifts, bracing his weight on his forearm so he can roll over, straddling John’s hips. He leans down, kisses John deeply, hastily unbuttons his pants, kicking them off with his underwear. Then he presses the length of their bodies together, starts grinding slowly against John, who moans, moving against him deliciously, pressing more kisses against, and into, Rook’s mouth. 

“I love you,” John breathes, and Rook grinds a little harder, pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of John’s mouth as he slides the constricting fabric of John's underwear out of the way. 

“I love you too,” Rook replies, taking them both in hand. 

This is a much better date than their last one, Rook thinks, before he loses the capacity to think at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a small, light-hearted 'thank you' for all of you wonderful readers. each kudos, comment, and bookmark has made me so incredibly happy. if you want to contact me on tumblr, i can be found at amistrio (personal) or peltonea (writing).


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